Wild,  Wild  Heart 


cirsh, 

.  friend  of 

Holmes, 

'oyal   and 

.  jold  and 

.jer   job 

•  'nich  arise. 


MAYFAIR   STATIONERS 

7855  MELROSE  AVENUE 

HOLLYWOOD,  CALIF. 


THE  MATFAIR  RENTAL  LIBRARY 
7855  Melrose  Avenue  (at  Fairfax) 
Hollywood, 


BOOK  NO. .« 

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Wild,  Wild  Heart 

TWENTY-THREE- YEAR-OLD  Ann  Merrill  leaves  her 
native  England  to  become  governess  for  the 
Holmes  family  in  New  Zealand.  The  strange  coun- 
try fascinates  her— grazing  herds  of  sheep,  the 
races,  polo;  but  all  this  is  mild  compared  to  the 
new  people  who  come  into  her  life.  Rodney 
Marsh,  head  shepherd;  Gerald  Waring,  friend  of 
the  family,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Holmes  themselves. 
The  husband,  kind,  loyal  and  considerate;  the 
wife,  calculating,  cold  and  selfish.  Ann  is  forced  to 
leave  her  job  because  of  the  complications  which 
arise.  Gerald  and  Rodney  both  fall  in  love  with 
her  and  Vera  Holmes  makes  her  life  miserable 
by  insidious  insinuations.  In  a  most  unusual  de- 
nouement, all  of  her  difficulties  are  solved,  but 
meanwhile  love,  hate,  friendship,  distrust  and  af- 
fection play  their  part  in  this  delightful  romance. 


Wild,  Wild  Heart 


By     ROSEMARY    REES 

AUTHOR     OF 

"Home  Is  Where  the  Heart  Is"  etc. 


A  berry  red,  a  guileless  look, 

A  still  word,  strings  of  sand! 

And  yet  they  made  my  wild,  wild  heart 

Fly  down  to  her  little  hand. 


AN     ARCADIA     HOUSE 
P  U  B  L  I  C  A   T  I  O  N 


PRINTED    IN    U.S.    A. 


Contents 


1.  First  Impressions  7 

2.  Second  Impressions  28 

3.  The  Clash  of  Temperament  57 

4.  "Daisy"  85 

5.  A  Race,  a  Dance,  a  Fight  95 

6.  The  Accident— and  After  1 1 1 

7.  Disillusion  125 

8.  Good-by  to  Tirau  137 

9.  The  Hat  Shop  151 

10.  Smoke  Without  Fire  164 

11.  The  Fords  192 

12.  A  Lover,  and  a  Friend  210 

13.  Stephanie  226 

14.  Vera  246 

15.  Nigger's  Victory  266 


'MAYFAIR   STATIONERS 
j  7855  MELROSE  AVENUE 

HOLLYWOOD,  CALIF. 

First  Impressions 


i. 

THE  driver  of  the  service  car  having  deposited  Ann, 
her  hatbox,  her  two  suitcases,  and  her  cabin  trunk,  in 
front  of  the  Omoana  Hotel,  swung  round  and  made 
for  the  little  iron-roofed  post  office,  where  he  pro- 
ceeded to  throw  out  the  canvas  mail  bags. 

But  Ann  was  no  longer  interested  in  the  service 
car.  She  stood  on  the  veranda  of  the  two-storied 
wooden  building,  feeling  very  hot  in  the  afternoon 
sunshine  and  wondering  rather  forlornly  why  no  one 
had  appeared  to  welcome  her.  "Welcome"  wasn't 
perhaps  the  right  word.  She  had  sufficient  common- 
sense  to  realize  that  the  arrival  of  a  nursery  governess 
wasn't  an  event  of  any  great  importance;  but  she  had 
understood  from  Mrs.  Holmes's  letter  that  some  one 
would  meet  her  at  the  Omoana  Hotel,  and  take  her 
on  the  further  seven  miles  to  the  station  homestead. 

Evidently  Omoana  township  ended  with  the  hotel. 
Certainly  the  dusty  roadway  ran  on  a  little  further 
into  the  tussocky  grass  of  the  sandhills,  but  after  a  few 
yards  it  seemed  to  lose  heart  and  give  up  all  hope  of 
reaching  the  beach  beyond,  where  an  endless  line  of 
breakers  rolling  in  from  the  blue  Pacific  fringed  the 
bay  with  white.  The  sound  of  the  surf  was  at  least 
cool  and  refreshing,  but  Ann  had  been  hearing  that 

7 


8  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

sound  for  the  last  three  hours,  and  she  was  tired  of  it. 
The  coast  road  along  which  the  service  car  had  trav- 
eled from  Wairiri  seemed  to  be  a  road  by  courtesy 
only.  The  car  ran  for  the  most  part  along  the  hard 
sand  of  the  seashore,  only  turning  inland  where  the 
rocky  headlands  jutted  out  into  the  blue  of  the  ocean. 
It  was  a  very  beautiful  coast  line,  but  very  lonely  too, 
Ann  reflected.  Not  a  house  in  sight  anywhere.  Only 
the  sheep  on  the  hills,  and  the  gulls  crying  over  the 
white  breakers,  and  the  wet  sand,  and  the  empty  wide 
Pacific.  And  Omoana  itself  was  little  less  lonely.  The 
hotel,  the  post  office,  the  store,  a  forlorn  looking 
bank,  a  blacksmith's  forge,  a  low  iron-roofed  hall 
plastered  with  film  posters,  a  garage,  and  one  or  two 
small  wooden  houses— all  seemed  practically  de- 
serted. Yet  there  must  be  human  beings  within  the 
shabby  wooden  walls  of  the  hotel,  for  a  saddled  horse 
was  hitched  to  a  post  outside  the  window  labeled 
"BAR,"  and  three  dogs  lay  snapping  at  the  flies  in 
the  sunshine  at  the  horse's  heels.  What  should  she  do? 
Ann  wondered.  Walk  through  into  the  open  hall-way 
and  call  for  some  one?  Bang  loudly  on  the  door?  All 
at  once  Ann's  stout  little  heart  failed  her.  She'd 
spoken  so  bravely  before  leaving  England  of  life  in 
a  new  country;  the  romance  of  it— the  adventure  1 
Well,  she'd  had  a  certain  amount  of  both  on  the 
voyage  out.  But  now!  A  sudden  wave  of  desolation 
engulfed  her.  Oh,  to  be  back  in  the  dear  old  ship 
again!  The  dancing,  and  the  deck  games,  and  faithful 
Bob  Greenaway  always  in  attendance! 

If  by  some  miracle  Bob  could  materialize  here  and 
now,  Ann  felt  that  she  would  hurl  herself  into  his 
kindly  arms  and  agree  to  love,  honor,  and  obey  like 
a  sensible  girl. 


First  Impressions  9 

But  no  miracle  happened.  Bob  was  twelve  hundred 
miles  away  in  Sydney.  She'd  send  a  cable  to  him!  She 
wouldn't  go  on  to  these  hateful  Holmes  people! 
She'd 

The  sound  of  voices  interrupted  the  sequence  of 
these  rash  resolves.  Evidently  one  or  two  people  had 
moved  into  the  bar  from  a  passage-way  behind  the 
front  hall.  Through  the  half-opened  door  Ann  could 
hear  the  clink  of  glasses,  and  laughter. 

"Rod's  keeping  up  his  courage!" 

"What  for?"  asked  a  woman's  voice. 

"Got  to  drive  the  old  school  ma'am  back  to  Tirau 
in  the  buggy.  She'll  learn  you  to  speak  proper,  Rod. 
No  bad  words,  mind!" 

"Isn't  Mrs.  Holmes  bringing  in  the  car?" 

"No,  Rod's  been  told  off  for  the  job.  Rod's  a  good 
little  boy— always  does  what  he's  told." 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  sudden  scuffle,  and  the 
crash  of  a  broken  glass,  and  then  the  woman's  voice 
again,  raised  sharply: 

"None  of  your  skylarking  in  here!  You'll  pay  for 
that  glass,  Jack." 

"Rod  broke  it.  But  Rod  don't  pay,  of  course— Rod's 
the  white-headed  boy  at  Omoana." 

Ann  pushed  open  the  door,  and  stood  in  the  en- 
trance. The  scuffling  stopped,  and  two  men  and  a 
woman  faced  her.  The  men  were  young— the  woman 
probably  in  her  middle  thirties— and  it  was  she  to 
whom  Ann  spoke. 

"Can  you  tell  me  how  I  can  reach  Mr.  Holmes's 
station?  I'm  their  governess.  I  understood  that  they 
were  meeting  me  here." 

She  already  knew  how  she  was  to  get  to  her  jour- 
ney's end.  "Rod"  was  to  drive  her  in  the  buggy;  but 


10  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

she  deemed  it  expedient  to  ignore  the  conversation 
she  had  overheard. 

"Why  yes— I  believe  Rodney  Marsh  is  taking  you. 
Isn't  that  so,  Rod?" 

"That's  right."  The  taller  of  the  two  young  men 
stepped  forward.  He  spoke  with  a  sort  of  half-sheep- 
ish defiance— his  old  felt  hat  still  on  the  back  of  his 
head.  It  wasn't  the  voice  of  a  gentleman,  Ann  decided 
quickly— for  according  to  her  standards  a  man's  social 
position  was  usually  indicated  by  his  accent— but  it 
wasn't  a  common  voice;  and  the  man  himself  was 
anything  but  common  in  appearance.  The  loose  open 
shirt,  and  shabby  gray  trousers  belted  by  a  strap, 
revealed  rather  than  disguised  his  wonderful  phy- 
sique. Straight  featured  and  fearless-eyed,  his  clear 
dark  skin  tanned  to  a  deeper  hue  by  sun  and  wind 
and  rain,  he  might  have  posed  for  a  statue  of  un- 
tamed youth.  A  little  too  untamed  perhaps.  There 
was  more  than  a  hint  of  arrogance  in  the  lift  of  the 
chin,  and  the  poise  of  the  fine  head.  "Phcebus,  God  of 
the  Morning!"  thought  Ann  quickly.  "Heavens,  what 
devastating  good  looks!  Still,  it's  a  pity  he  doesn't 
know  that  it's  manners  to  remove  his  hat." 

But  Ann  was  wrong.  Rodney  Marsh's  old  felt  hat 
pushed  on  to  the  back  of  his  head  was  a  deliberate 
gesture— a  challenge  to  the  look  she  herself  had  bent 
upon  him. 

He  knew  that  she  must  have  heard  all  that  had 
passed  before  her  entrance,  and  he  was  taken  at  a  dis- 
advantage. He  wasn't  accustomed  to  that.  Son  of  an 
emigrant  plowman,  he  was  still  king  of  his  own  small 
world,  and  he'd  let  her  know  it. 

And  so  during  the  seven-mile  drive  in  the  rattling 
buggy,  he  remained  morosely  silent;  and  Ann,  tired, 


First  Impressions  n 

limp,  and  dusty,  cared  not  a  pin  whether  he  spoke  or 
not. 

2. 

Mrs.  Holmes,  cigarette  in  hand,  rose  from  among 
the  cushions  of  her  deck-chair  as  Ann  mounted  the 
veranda  steps.  The  sun  would  soon  be  dropping  be- 
hind the  hills  to  the  left  of  the  homestead,  but  it 
was  still  hot;  and  across  the  paddocks,  a  group  of 
small  buildings  near  the  red-painted  woolshed  and  the 
sheep  yards  was  vividly  outlined  in  the  mellowing 
light.  Each  big  forest  tree  in  the  patch  of  native  bush 
on  the  bank  of  the  river  behind  the  shed  showed  up 
distinct  and  clear;  and  beyond,  through  a  gap  in  the 
hills,  one  saw  a  triangle  of  sapphire  blue— the  sea. 
The  low  bungalow-like  homestead  was  set  on  a  slope. 
The  flower  garden  fell  in  terraces  below  it— with  long 
shadows  of  shrubs  and  trees  now  slanting  across  the 
sun-dried  turf  of  the  tennis  court. 

Ann's  first  impression  of  Vera  Holmes  was  of  a 
haggard,  handsome  woman  with  queer  dark  eyes. 
"She  has  a  thwarted  look,"  was  the  comment  that 
sprang  into  Ann's  mind,  though  she  couldn't  quite 
explain  to  herself  what  she  meant  by  that. 

"Hope  you  didn't  mind  coming  in  the  buggy,"  said 
Mrs.  Holmes  in  a  husky  drawl,  waving  the  smoke  of 
her  cigarette  from  between  them.  "I  had  a  bad  head, 
and  didn't  feel  up  to  driving  the  car,  and  my  hus- 
band's out  at  the  back  of  the  run.  Frightfully  warm 
for  this  time  of  year,  isn't  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Ann.  "I've  only  been  in  New 
Zealand  a  week." 

"This  is  like  summer.  We're  wanting  rain  badly." 

A  man  in  riding  kit  was  stretched  out  lazily  in  a 


12  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

chair  beside  the  one  which  Mrs.  Holmes  had  just 
vacated.  "That's  not  Mr.  Holmes  then,"  thought 
Ann;  but  she  did  not  look  in  his  direction. 

"Bring  the  luggage  right  through,  Marsh,"  went  on 
Mrs.  Holmes;  and  turning  again  to  Ann:  "I  expect 
you'd  like  to  see  your  room.  Have  you  had  any  tea?" 

Ann  shook  her  head. 

"Why  didn't  you  see  that  Miss  Merrill  had  tea  at 
Omoana,  Marsh?" 

"She  told  Mrs.  Bentley  she  didn't  want  it,"  re- 
turned the  young  man  shortly. 

"I  thought  I'd  better  not  delay." 

"Oh  well,  I'll  get  you  a  cup.  My  two  domestics 
are  down  at  the  cottage.  They  live  down  there."  With 
a  casual  movement  of  her  well-shaped  hand  Vera 
Holmes  indicated  the  buildings  near  the  woolshed. 
"I  usually  let  them  go  for  two  or  three  hours  in  the 
afternoon.  We're  in  luck  at  present— an  excellent  mar- 
ried couple  with  a  daughter.  She's  a  somewhat  minia- 
ture and  incompetent  housemaid,  but  we  take  what 
the  gods— or  the  Emigration  Department— send  us, 
and  are  thankful." 

They  had  moved  through  the  central  hall,  and 
along  a  passage  leading  to  the  western  side  of  the 
house,  and  here  in  a  small  bright-papered  room  Ann's 
luggage  was  deposited.  Rodney  Marsh  made  his  way 
out  towards  the  back  of  the  house,  and  while  Mrs. 
Holmes  went  off  to  see  about  the  tea,  Ann  inspected 
her  domain. 

A  french  window— now  flung  widely  open— led  on 
to  a  small  side  veranda,  and  so  to  the  flower-sweet 
garden.  Beyond  her  room  to  the  left  was  a  big  bed- 
room which  Mrs.  Holmes  told  her  belonged  to  the 


First  Impressions  13 

little  girls;  to  the  right,  two  jutting  bay  windows  of 
what  she  afterwards  found  were  Mr.  Holmes's  bed- 
room and  the  smoking-room,  respectively,  shut  her  off 
from  the  front  of  the  house  where  Mrs.  Holmes  and 
her  companion  had  been  sitting  when  Rodney  Marsh 
had  driven  the  buggy  up  the  drive. 

What  sort  of  a  woman  was  Mrs.  Holmes,  Ann 
wondered.  Quick  and  as  a  rule  fairly  accurate  in  her 
judgments,  Ann  found  herself  more  than  a  little 
baffled  here.  In  her  short  life  Ann  had  met  many 
types,  but  never  any  one  of  this  description.  Fasci- 
nating, yes— but  was  she  honest?  Was  she  kind?  She 
had  received  the  new  governess  quite  amiably,  and 
now  brought  in  the  tea-tray  herself  and  stayed  for  a 
few  moments  chatting  in  the  bored  and  detached 
manner  which  seemed  an  expression  of  her  personal- 
ity. But  was  it?  Was  she  not  rather  very  alert  and 
very  subtle?  When  she  was  left  alone  with  her  tea-tray 
beside  her  on  the  veranda,  Ann's  thoughts  were  cen- 
tered on  her  new  employer.  Should  they  get  on  to- 
gether? Ann  hoped  so,  and  yet  some  instinct  warned 
her  to  go  warily.  She  had  learned  that  as  a  rule  she 
would  be  expected  to  give  the  litle  girls— Biddy,  aged 
eight,  and  Jo,  aged  six— their  tea  in  the  dining-room 
about  5.30.  Tonight,  as  they  had  ridden  out  with 
their  father  to  the  back  of  the  station,  they  might  be 
home  late,  and  therefore  would  have  dinner  with 
their  elders.  Dinner  was  at  6.15.  Yes,  earlier  than  one 
had  it  "at  Home"  (Ann  already  knew  that  "Home" 
with  a  big  "H"  signified  England) ,  but  Mrs.  Pratt 
and  Emily  liked  to  get  back  as  soon  as  possible  to  the 
cottage.  That  was  all. 

Ann  finished  her  tea  and  then  began  unpacking. 


14  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

3- 

A  few  minutes  after  six,  Ann  heard  thick-shod  small 
feet  stumping  into  the  bathroom;  the  splashing  of 
water;  and  a  confused  murmur  of  voices.  Then  a 
man's  voice— a  very  gentle,  pleasant  voice— called: 

"Hurry  up,  young  'ns.  Don't  be  all  night— I  want 
the  bathroom." 

"Jo  hasn't  washed  her  knees." 

"Pooh!  Who's  going  to  take  the  trouble  to  look 
under  the  table  at  my  knees?  It'll  be  dark  soon,  any- 
how." 

More  blurred  discussion,  and  then: 

"Come  on,  Dad— all  clear." 

A  moment  or  two  later  a  whispering  and  a  pushing 
sound  outside  Ann's  door  announced  the  fact  that 
the  two  little  girls  were  there.  Ann's  eyes  twinkled. 
Curiosity,  hampered  by  indecision,  was  so  obviously 
expressed  in  those  murmurs  and  shufflings. 

She  opened  her  door.  "Were  you  coming  in  to  see 
me?" 

The  two  little  girls  almost  fell  into  the  room.  They 
both  looked  at  her  with  a  fixed  stare.  Then  Biddy 
turned  to  Jo. 

"I've  won,"  she  said. 

"You  didn't  say  shingled"  objected  Jo. 

"No,  but  you  said  'scraggly  hair  parted  in  the 
middle  and  specs.' " 

"Not  parted  in  the  middle." 

"  'A  stuffy  old  thing  like  Miss  Hildred,'  you  said." 

"Not  'stuffy,'-'snuffy,'  I  said." 

"Anyhow  she  isn't." 

"Isn't  what?" 

"Snuffy." 


First  Impressions  15 

"Oh,  well,  you  can  take  your  old  sixpence.  I  don't 
care,"  said  Jo,  suddenly  abandoning  her  untenable 
line  of  defense.  "Anyhow  I'm  glad  she  isn't  like  Miss 
Hildred." 

"Who's  Miss  Hildred?"  asked  Ann. 

"She  was  the  one  before  the  last." 

"No,  the  one  before  before  the  last,"  corrected  Jo. 
"There's  been  so  many  I've  lost  count.  We've  had 
five  in  the  last  year." 

"That  sounds  cheerful  for  me,  I  must  say,"  re- 
marked Ann.  "It's  a  pity  I  bothered  to  unpack." 

Both  the  little  girls  grinned  broadly. 

"If  we  like  you,"  said  Biddy,  "we  won't  get  out  of 
hand." 

"Get  out  of  hand  indeed!  I  shall  take  the  thickest 
stick  I  can  find  and  wallop  you  both  soundly.  That's 
the  way  I'll  teach  you  to  like  me!" 

Their  grins  widened. 

"I  like  you  now,  so  you  needn't  wallop  me,"  said 
Biddy. 

"And  I  love  you,"  said  Jo,  suddenly  hurling  her- 
self into  Ann's  arms. 

"Jo's  so  unrestrained!"  said  Biddy  disgustedly. 

"Oh,  I'll  soon  restrain  her,"  replied  Ann,  scowling 
so  fiercely  that  both  little  girls  shrieked  with  mirth. 
This  was  a  new  kind  of  governess.  They  were  pre- 
pared to  become  the  devoted  slaves  of  any  one  who 
looked  as  pretty  as  this,  and  could  make  jokes— the 
sort  of  jokes  they  understood. 

"But  you're  not  very  old,"  said  Biddy  at  last,  rather 
doubtfully. 

"Quite  old  enough.  I'm  older  than  you  think." 

"You  don't  know  what  I  think." 

At  this  retort  Ann  laughed,  and  then  the  little  girls 


i6  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

laughed  too,  and  they  all  laughed  together,  and  so 
were  very  good  friends  when  the  gong  sounded,  and 
they  went  in  to  dinner. 

The  blinds  had  been  drawn  in  the  dining-room, 
and  the  hanging  lamp  lighted,  although  outside  it 
was  not  yet  dark.  Neither  of  the  men  was  in  evening 
dress,  but  Mrs.  Holmes  wore  a  vivid  yellow  gown 
with  a  heavy  jade  necklace,  and  jade  ear-rings.  Ann 
had  thought  her  handsome  at  first,  but  now,  in  the 
lamplight,  her  thin  cheeks  flushed  and  her  dark  eyes 
shining,  she  looked  beautiful. 

Before  they  sat  down  Ann  was  introduced. 

"Dick,  this  is  Miss  Merrill,"  and: 

"Miss  Merrill— Mr.  Waring." 

Mr.  Waring  was  "Gerald"  apparently  to  all  the 
family— even  to  Jo.  Ann  concluded  that  he  was  the 
man  who  had  been  sitting  with  Mrs.  Holmes  on  the 
veranda  when  she  arrived,  but  she  was  not  quite  sure 
whether  he  was  a  relative  or  a  friend.  He  was  no 
longer  in  riding  clothes,  and  from  this  Ann  imagined 
that  he  must  be  staying  in  the  house.  He  was  good- 
looking,  tall  and  fair;  very  sure  of  himself  and  amus- 
ing in  a  rather  sarcastic,  deliberate  way.  fie  addressed 
no  remarks  to  Ann  throughout  the  meal,  and  she  re- 
mained silent  for  the  most  part;  for  the  conversation 
dealt  chiefly  with  the  coming  shearing,  the  lack  of 
rain,  the  polo  match  against  Omoana  on  Saturday 
afternoon,  and  the  neighbors;  and  on  all  of  these 
subjects  Ann  had  no  opinions  to  offer. 

Dick  Holmes  struck  her  as  being  indefinite— both 
in  appearance  and  in  manner.  He  was  gentle,  shy, 
and  a  trifle  awkward,  but  he  had  kind  eyes,  and  a 
nice  voice,  and  it  was  quite  evident  that  the  two  chil- 
dren adored  him. 


First  Impressions  17 

"Did  you  get  to  Bentley's  before  the  service  car?" 
he  asked  his  wife  towards  the  end  of  the  meal. 

"I  didn't  go,"  she  answered.  "I  had  a  bad  head, 
and  sent  Marsh  in  with  the  buggy." 

"Why  didn't  you  let  him  take  the  car?" 

"The  ponies  had  to  be  shod,  so  I  thought  he  could 
kill  two  birds  with  one  stone." 

Dick  Holmes  turned  to  Ann. 

"I  hope  you  didn't  find  the  old  buggy  too  uncom- 
fortable." 

"Oh,  no,  it  was  quite  all  right." 

"We  don't  often  use  the  buggy.  But  some  of  the 
roads  round  here  are  unmetaled,  and  we  can't  take 
the  car  out  on  them  in  wet  weather,  so  the  ponies 
have  to  be  kept  in  commission." 

"Is  Marsh  playing  for  Tirau  on  Saturday?"  asked 
Waring. 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 

«i"It's  ridiculous  the  way  you  spoil  that  boy,"  put  in 
Mrs.  Holmes  impatiently.  "After  all,  he's  only  a 
working  man— a  shepherd." 

"Head-shepherd." 

"Oh,  well,  it's  the  same  thing." 

"Rodney  wouldn't  agree  with  you— and  he's  a  rat- 
tling good  polo  player.  We've  got  to  play  the  strongest 
team  we  can  get  hold  of  at  Wairiri." 

"The  young  Adonis!  You'll  find  all  the  girls  will 
be  tumbling  over  each  other  to  dance  with  him  at 
the  Polo  Ball,"  said  Waring.  "He'll  be  resplendent  in 
white  kid  gloves  and  a  ready-made  dinner  jacket." 

"Surely  he  won't  be  invited  to  the  ball!"  Vera 
Holmes  spoke  sharply. 

"Why  not,  if  he's  a  member  of  the  Coast  Team?" 
asked  her  husband.  He  never  raised  his  voice.  His 


i8  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

gentle  manner  was  a  queer  contrast  to  Waring's  caus- 
tic tones. 

"He's  conceited  enough  as  it  is!  There'll  be  no 
holding  him  if  he's  chosen  for  the  Coast  Team  and 
allowed  to  go  down  to  Wairiri  for  the  Tournament." 

"He's  a  good  lad." 

"So  you  always  say.  Personally  I  think  he's  a  wild 
young  rip.  Drinking  and  gambling  and . . .  carrying 
on  with  that  awful  Mrs.  Bentley ..." 

Holmes  lifted  his  eyebrows  at  her  with  a  little  side 
glance  at  the  children,  who  were  both  eagerly  lis- 
tening. 

"Yes,  I  know  he  likes  Mrs.  Bentley,"  said  Biddy. 
"He  gave  her  the  silver  cup  Nigger  won  for  jumping 
at  the  Sports." 

"Emily  told  us,"  chirruped  Jo. 

"It's  quite  time  you  youngsters  were  in  bed,"  said 
their  father.  "What  about  baths?" 

"Oh,  they  can't  have  them  just  after  the  enormous 
meal  they've  eaten." 

"Jo'll  have  to  wash  her  knees  anyhow— they're 
filthy." 

"They're  not  filthy.  It's  only  clean  mud— where  I 
fell  in  the  creek." 

Ann  took  them  both  off. 


She  could  hear  them  chattering  together  from  their 
beds  in  the  next  room  as  she  sat  before  her  writing- 
table  in  the  twilight.  The  windows  were  still  open  to 
the  garden,  where  the  crickets  shrilled,  and  the  scent 
of  the  stocks  and  tobacco  plants  in  the  border  came 
in  to  her.  The  moths  came  in  too,  clustering  thickly 


First  Impressions  19 

round  the  lamp  she  had  lighted.  In  spite  of  the  chil- 
dren's chatter  Ann  felt  very  desolate  and  very  home- 
sick. She  was  alone,  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land.  Far 
away  some  bird  was  calling  mournfully— a  weka  she 
knew  it  to  be  afterwards— a  horse  neighed  down  in 
one  of  the  paddocks,  and  from  the  hills  around  came 
the  lonely  and  plaintive  bleating  of  distant  sheep. 
Through  the  blue  gums  of  the  plantation  on  her  left 
a  little  breeze  sighed  sadly.  Ann  took  up  her  pen. 
She'd  write  to  Bob.  She  knew  it  would  be  kinder  not 
to  do  so— she  ought  to  allow  him  to  forget  her— but 
she  was  feeling  so  forlorn  that  she  must  speak  to  some 
one,  some  friend.  Her  stiff  little  letter  to  her  father 
announcing  her  arrival  in  Wairiri  had  been  written 
the  previous  night.  Her  stepmother  wouldn't  want  to 
hear.  "My  dear  Bob!"  She  sat  balancing  her  pen  in 
her  hand.  He'd  told  her  that  if  she  ever  changed  her 
mind:  No,  she  wouldn't  write.  It  wasn't  fair.  She  liked 
him  and  respected  him,  but  she  didn't  love  him. 
Well,  what  was  love?  Did  that  wild  passionate  attach- 
ment exist  outside  the  pages  of  romantic  novels? 
Probably  it  didn't— and  in  any  case  if  it  did,  nine 
girls  out  of  ten  didn't  find  it.  She  wasn't  a  stupid, 
sentimental  schoolgirl  pining  for  love;  but  at  the 
present  moment  she  did  undoubtedly  feel  very  lonely 
and  deserted,  and  would  have  welcomed  a  little  hu- 
man companionship.  She  wished  Mrs.  Holmes  had 
suggested  her  joining  them  in  the  drawing-room.  Oh, 
well!  There  didn't  seem  anything  left  for  her  to  do 
but  take  a  book  from  the  little  bookshelf  on  the  wall, 
and  read  herself  to  sleep.  But  as  she  rose  from  the 
writing-table  there  was  a  knock  at  her  door,  and  Mrs. 
Holmes  entered.  As  usual  she  was  smoking. 

"Have  you  got  everything  you  want?  Oh,  you'd 


20  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

better  close  the  wire  doors  on  your  window,  or  your 
room  will  be  full  of  flying  beasts."  Crossing  the  room 
as  she  spoke  she  pulled-to  the  netted  frames.  "We 
haven't  many  mosquitoes  up  here,  thank  goodness" 

She  moved  restlessly  about  the  room  for  a  moment. 

"Are  these  your  photographs?" 

"Yes,  that's  my  father." 

"And  this?" 

"My  stepmother." 

"Why  did  they  allow  you  to  come  out  here  by  your- 
self? You're  only  a  baby." 

"I'm  twenty-three." 

"You  look  about  seventeen— I'd  never  have  engaged 
you  if  I'd  known  you  were  so  young.  That  Educa- 
tional Bureau,  or  whatever  they  call  themselves,  in 
Wellington,  didn't  mention  your  age." 

"Do  you  mean  you're  not— not  satisfied?" 

Mrs.  Holmes  shrugged. 

"If  you  can  manage  the  children  it'll  be  all  right  I 
suppose— and  they  seem  to  have  taken  a  fancy  to  you." 

She  turned,  and  suddenly  her  voice  lost  its  lazy 
drawl,  and  was  shaken  and  impatient,  as  it  had  been 
at  dinner  when  she  spoke  of  Rodney  Marsh. 

"If  I  sent  you  away  I  suppose  kind  friends  would 
say  that  I  was  jealous  of  you  because  you're  so  young 
and  pretty." 

For  a  moment  Ann  was  taken  aback;  then  she  an- 
swered quite  simply: 

"Why  should  you  be  jealous  when  you  look ...  so 
...  so  beautiful  yourself?" 

A  quick  light  sprang  into  Mrs.  Holmes's  dark  eyes. 

"Do  you  mean  that?  Yes"— she  said  slowly,  answer- 
ing her  own  question— "you  do.  Your  eyes  are  truth- 


First  Impressions  21 

ful.  I  was  good-looking  once.  Oh,  I  loathe  growing 
old.  No!  don't  say  anything  more,  you'd  spoil  it." 

Again  her  voice  resumed  its  normal  tone: 

"Didn't  your  father  object  to  your  coming  all  this 
way— to  the  other  side  of  the  world?" 

"No,"  said  Ann  truthfully.  "I  was  the  youngest  of 
the  first  family,  and  there's  another  small  family  now 
—my  stepmother's  children— I  wasn't  wanted  at 
home." 

"Haven't  you  any  brothers  and  sisters  of  your 
own?" 

"Yes,  but  they're  much  older  and  they're  married, 
and  have  children  themselves.  They  don't  take  much 
interest  in  me." 

"You've  been  a  nursery  governess  before?" 

"Yes,  for  eighteen  months.  And  I  worked  as  a  typist 
for  a  year." 

"You're  enterprising." 

Ann  laughed. 

"Oh,  I  learned  millinery  too!  I  should  love  to  have 
gone  on  with  that— had  a  shop  of  my  own.  But  it's 
so  hard  to  start  anything  like  that  in  London— the 
competition's  awful.  Still,  my  millinery  lessons 
weren't  wasted.  I  save  quite  a  lot  doing  my  own  hats." 

Mrs.  Holmes's  face  lit  up  again. 

"Did  you  trim  that  hat  you  wore  today  when  you 
arrived?" 

"I  made  it." 

"The  whole  thing?" 

Ann  nodded. 

"Oh,  but  it  was  a  little  lamb!  Will  you  make  me 
some  hats?" 

"Of  course  I  will." 

"What  joy  to  get  something  decent  to  put  on  one's 


22  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

head.  I  love  clothes  and  I  have  a  passion  for  hats,  and 
one  can't  get  anything  decent  in  Wairiri.  How  I  ache 
sometimes  for  London  again,  and  the  shops!  If  you 
can  supply  me  with  pretty  hats,  I  don't  care  what  you 
teach  the  children." 

She  picked  up  another  photograph. 

"And  who  is  the  nice-looking  young  man?" 

"He  traveled  on  the  ship  with  me." 

"I  suppose  he  wanted  to  marry  you?" 

Ann  did  not  answer  for  a  moment. 

"Oh,  of  course  he  did,"  said  Mrs.  Holmes.  "They 
all  do  ...  on  ships.  Did  you  say  yes?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  didn't  love  him." 

Vera  Holmes  gave  a  sudden  hard  laugh. 

"Love!"  she  echoed.  But  she  put  the  photograph 
down,  and  said  no  more  on  the  subject. 

"Those  two  men  are  talking  sheep  as  usual,"  she 
went  on  abruptly.  "Wool  and  mutton,  mutton  and 
wool!  That's  all  men  ever  talk  about  in  this  country. 
What  price  did  Smith's  wool  fetch,  and  how  much 
did  Jones  get  for  his  fat  lambs  from  the  Works?  I 
suppose  you  can't  play  bridge,  can  you?  That  would 
be  too  much  to  hope  for." 

"Of  course  I  can,"  said  Ann. 

"Oh,  thank  God,"  murmured  Mrs.  Holmes.  "Come 
along  and  we'll  end  that  interminable  discussion  of 
wool  and  mutton  and  hogets  and  two-tooths." 

So  Ann's  evening  ended  very  much  more  cheerfully 
than  it  had  begun,  for  she  played  five  good  rubbers, 
at  the  end  of  which  she  was  richer  by  the  whole  sum 
of  ninepence.  But  as  she  got  into  bed  that  night  she 
reflected  that  though  she  had  not  yet  decided  in  her 


First  Impressions  23 

own  mind  whether  Mrs.  Holmes  was  either  honest  or 
kind,  there  was  one  thing  her  new  employer  decidedly 
was  not.  She  was  not  happy. 


Ann  had  her  early  cup  of  tea  brought  to  her  by 
Emily,  the  fifteen-year-old  housemaid,  next  morning 
before  seven  o'clock.  A  few  minutes  afterwards  Biddy 
and  Jo  ran  along  the  veranda  in  their  pajamas,  and 
informed  her,  through  the  wire-netting  of  her  open 
french  window,  that  if  she  liked  they  would  show  her 
the  schoolroom  before  breakfast. 

"It's  not  in  the  house,  you  know,"  said  Biddy.  "It's 
in  a  whare  up  on  the  hill  higher  'an  the  stockyard." 

"What's  a  whare?"  asked  Ann. 

Jo's  rotund  little  form  spun  round  like  a  top  in 
an  ecstasy  of  mirth. 

"Doesn't  know  what  a  whare  is!"  she  chortled. 

"It's  a  house— a  little  house— of  course." 

"Don't  be  silly,  Jo.  How  would  Miss  Merrill  know? 
They  don't  talk  Maori  in  England,  do  they,  Miss 
Merrill?" 

"I  never  heard  any." 

"Dan's  a  Maori— Dan  the  cowboy.  He  cooked  for 
the  men  at  the  cottage  before  Mrs.  Pratt  was  there. 
He  milks,  and  feeds  the  fowls,  and  the  pigs,  and  some- 
times . . ." 

"Oh,  do  be  quiet,  Jo!  Miss  Merrill  doesn't  want  to 
hear  all  that  stupid  rubbish." 

"It  isn't  stupid  rubbish." 

A  heated  argument  ensued.  But  half  an  hour  later 
Ann,  with  a  little  girl  dangling  from  either  hand,  was 
making  her  way  through  the  garden  beyond  the  east- 


24  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

ern  veranda  towards  the  whare.  This  was  an  old 
three-roomed  cottage  set  higher  up  the  slope  among 
the  trees;  and  from  the  schoolroom,  which  was  in 
the  front  of  the  building,  one  looked  down  upon 
stockyard,  stables,  and  garage;  and  then  across  the 
paddocks  to  the  woolshed,  the  sheep  yards,  and  all  the 
buildings  clustered  there.  There  had  been  heavy  rain 
in  the  night,  but  now  the  sunshine  was  brilliant  and 
clear,  and  larks  were  singing  high  up  in  the  blue. 
Already  the  paddocks  and  the  tennis  court  looked 
more  freshly  green,  and  the  flowers  washed  and  shin- 
ing. Down  by  the  woolshed  cattle  were  moving  in  the 
sunshine,  dogs  barked,  and  there  was  the  crack  of  a 
stockwhip  from  a  galloping  horseman  as  one  beast 
broke  away  from  the  mob. 

"That's  Rodney  drafting  cattle,"  said  Biddy,  look- 
ing down.  "He's  the  best  rider  on  the  coast." 

"What  about  Dad?"  demanded  Jo,  fiercely. 

"Rodney's  better  than  Dad— Dad  says  so  himself. 
He's  got  better  hands." 

"Pooh!  Dad's  the  best  rider  in  New  Zealand— the 
best  in  the  world." 

Another  heated  argument  arose.  Ann  restored 
peace  by  dragging  a  red  herring  across  the  scent. 

"Where  does  that  other  door  lead  to?"   . 

"That?  Oh,  that's  Gerald's  room.  He  doesn't  live 
here,  you  know.  But  he  leaves  his  clothes  and  things 
there,  so  as  he  can  change  for  polo  practice." 

Biddy's  brows  were  drawn  down  in  a  scowl. 

"I  love  Gerald,"  announced  Jo. 

"You  say  that  because  he  gives  you  chocolates." 

"No,  I'd  love  him  just  the  same  if  he  didn't  give 
me  nothing." 

"I  hate  him." 


First  Impressions  25 

"Oh,  Biddy!  He's  Daddy's  best  friend.  You  know 
Mummy  whipped  you  for  saying  that." 

"I  don't  care!  I  hate  him,  so  there.  Why  doesn't 
he  bring  his  own  ponies  over  from  Kopu  instead  of 
riding  Belle?  I  hate  him." 

"All  right— but  don't  make  so  much  noise  about  it." 

Waring  himself  opened  the  inner  door,  and  stepped 
out  into  the  schoolroom. 

Biddy's  jaw  dropped,  and  the  scarlet  ran  from  neck 
to  brow. 

"I  thought  you  went  home  last  night,"  she  stam- 
mered. 

Jo  was  again  doubling  herself  up  and  dancing 
round,  choking  with  laughter.  What  a  joke!  He'd  ac- 
tually heard  Biddy  say  she  hated  him!  Biddy  moved 
to  the  open  door. 

"Dan's  going  to  feed  the  new  chickens,"  she  said, 
and  sped  down  the  hill  as  fleetly  as  a  deer. 

"Wait  for  me!  Wait  for  me!"  shrieked  Jo,  tum- 
bling down  the  slope  as  fast  as  her  fat  little  legs 
could  carry  her. 

"Amiable  child!"  observed  Waring. 

"All  children  say  silly  things  of  that  sort  at  times. 
It  doesn't  mean  anything." 

"She  resents  my  riding  one  of  her  father's  ponies 
for  polo  practice.  She's  an  objectionable  kid." 

Ann  contradicted  him. 

"She's  a  dear  little  girl,  really." 

"It's  your  job  to  say  that." 

"I  shouldn't  say  it  if  I  didn't  think  it." 

Suddenly  the  man  laughed. 

"You're  far  too  pretty  to  be  a  school  ma'am,"  he 
said  coolly,  "and  you're  only  a  kid  yourself." 

Ann  was  conscious  of  a  little  flash  of  temper,  but 


26  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

when  she  spoke  her  voice  was  quite  even  and  uncon- 
cerned. 

"I'm  getting  a  trifle  tired  of  remarks  as  to  my  juve- 
nile appearance,"  she  said.  "First  Biddy,  then  Mrs. 
Holmes,  and  now  you.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm 
twenty-three." 

"So  old!"  he  mocked.  "Well,  I'm  thirty-five.  Al- 
most old  enough  to  be  your  father/' 

"Old  enough  at  least  to  have  learned  not  to  be 
impertinent,"  she  returned  calmly. 

At  this  he  laughed  again,  and  moved  to  the  open 
doorway  and  stood  there— not  actually  blocking  her 
exit,  but  making  it  difficult  for  her  to  leave  without 
pushing  past  him. 

"Are  we  beginning  to  quarrel?"  he  asked,  smiling 
at  her  with  a  sort  of  lazy  insolence.  "I'd  hate  to 
quarrel  with  anything  as  pretty  as  you  are." 

"It's  charming  of  you  to  insist  so  on  my  prettiness." 

"Yes,  isn't  it?  I  thought  you'd  like  my  candor. 
Most  women  do." 

At  that  Ann  laughed.  After  all,  it  was  much  better 
to  take  his  impudence  as  a  joke. 

"My  beauty  seems  to  have  burst  upon  you  rather 
suddenly.  It  wasn't  apparent  last  night." 

"Oh,  yes  it  was,"  he  answered.  "Don't  you  make 
any  mistake  about  that." 

What  was  she  to  do?  How  end  this  foolish  scene? 

"Mr.  Waring,"  she  said,  turning  to  him  quite 
frankly,  "you  think  it's  amusing  to  tease  me,  but  I 
think  it's  a  little  unkind.  I  can't  get  out  of  that  door 
without  pushing  past  you." 

"I  don't  object  being  pushed." 

"I  wasn't  brought  up  to  push." 

"There's  the  window,"  he  suggested,  "you  might 


First  Impressions  27 

climb  out  of  that— or  go  out  by  way  of  my  room.  But 
no,  I  shouldn't  do  that.  It  might  give  rise  to  gossip." 

He  turned  as  he  spoke,  and  she  was  free  to  make 
her  way  past  him  through  the  door.  But  the  tone  of 
his  last  remark  had  annoyed  her  more  than  all  the 
rest.  How  was  she  to  treat  him?  Thank  goodness  he 
didn't  live  at  Tirau! 

Yet  at  breakfast,  when  they  met  again,  he  gave  not 
the  slightest  sign  of  any  previous  encounter  with  her. 
He  said  "Good  morning,"  politely;  and  after  that 
never  once  glanced  in  her  direction. 

"He  can't  be  snobbish  enough  to  be  ashamed  of 
being  friendly  with  the  governess,"  she  thought.  "In 
this  year  of  grace  that's  surely  rather  Vieux  jeu.' ' 
But  she  was  quite  satisfied  to  be  ignored.  She  told 
herself  that  she  had  no  desire  to  claim  his  notice 
further. 


II 

Second  Impressions 


i. 

ANN  had  been  three  days  at  Tirau,  and  all  was  going 
well.  She  had  lost  her  first  feeling  of  loneliness  and 
nostalgia,  and  now  was  keenly  alive  to  all  the  interest 
and  fascination  of  this  new  environment. 

On  the  fourth  day  Mrs.  Ralston,  the  wife  of  one  of 
the  neighboring  station-owners,  had  motored  over 
with  her  three  small  children  soon  after  lunch,  and 
the  little  Holmes  girls  were  released  from  further  les- 
sons in  order  to  entertain  their  guests.  So  Ann,  glad 
to  have  a  few  hours  to  herself,  set  off  for  a  walk  over 
the  hills  towards  the  back  of  the  run.  Most  of  these 
hills  had  long  ago  been  cleared  of  the  primeval  for- 
ests which  had  clothed  them  until  fifty  or  sixty  years 
previously.  Now  they  were  pasture  land  for  sheep 
and  cattle.  But  here  and  there  a  clump  of  glossy- 
leaved  karaka  trees  gave  welcome  shade,  and  the 
green  tops  of  the  mop-headed  cabbage-trees  rattled 
in  the  warm  wind.  Tall  clumps  of  flax  grew  in  the 
valleys;  and  white  flowering  manuka  outlined  some 
of  the  steeper  ridges.  There  had  been  more  welcome 
rain  during  the  past  few  days,  and  now  spurs  and 
gullies  were  green  and  fresh  in  the  warm  sunshine. 
After  a  dry  winter  and  an  early  rainless  spring,  the 
farmers  rejoiced  in  the  breaking  of  the  drought;  but 

28 


Second  Impressions  29 

they  wanted  fine  weather  for  the  shearing  in  the  im- 
mediate future. 

Ann  had  wandered  on  for  over  an  hour  when  she 
came  to  a  patch  of  native  bush,  through  which 
swirled  a  creek  over  moss-covered  stones.  Tree-ferns 
raised  their  lacy  crowns  above  the  water,  and  great 
forest  trees— tawa,  matai  and  kahikatea— laced  below 
with  hanging  vines  and  undergrowth— pink  flowering 
convolvulus,  and  white  starred  clematis— towered 
overhead.  Never  had  Ann  seen  such  a  wealth  of 
varied  ferns;  and  echoing  in  the  damp  stillness  was 
the  note  of  the  tui,  like  the  song  of  the  thrush  and 
the  nightingale  in  one  feathered  throat.  Ann  was 
loath  to  leave  the  cloistered  peace  of  this  sequestered 
spot;  but  at  last,  realizing  that  unless  she  hurried  she 
would  get  back  too  late  for  the  children's  evening 
meal,  she  set  off  to  try  and  find  a  short  cut  home.  By 
keeping  along  the  valley  and  climbing  through  vari- 
ous tight  wire  fences— "Lucky  I'm  no  fatter!"  thought 
Ann— she  reached  a  smaller  paddock  which  appar- 
ently was  empty. 

No!  As  she  crossed  it  she  realized  that  one  horse 
had  the  entire  field  to  himself.  What  a  splendid 
looking  animal!  Soon  she  must  learn  to  ride!  How 
wonderful  to  control  a  creature  like  that— so  beauti- 
fully proportioned,  so  ...  Suddenly  this  high-flown 
rhapsody  was  rudely  interrupted.  For— good  Heavens! 
He  was  charging  her!  Rushing  at  her!  Screaming 
at  her!  No  horse  she  had  seen  before  in  all  her  life 
had  ever  behaved  like  this.  In  her  terrified  rush  for 
safety  all  she  could  think  of  was— "He  swalloweth 
the  ground  with  fierceness  and  rage."  Wasn't  that 
something  from  the  Bible  having  reference  to  the 
horse?  Until  this  moment  she  had  looked  upon  this 


30  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

verse  as  poetic  imagery  only,  now  it  was  more  than 
that.  She  knew  that  if  this  dreadful  animal  reached 
her  she  was  doomed.  Yet  what  hope  had  she  of  es- 
cape? None!  The  fence  was  twenty  yards  away  at 
least.  The  galloping  pounding  hoofs  were  close  be- 
hind her.  Then  in  a  second  a  miracle  happened! 

There  was  a  sound  like  the  crack  of  a  rifle,  and 
over  the  wire  fence  ahead  there  came,  sailing  like  a 
bird,  another  horse,  but  this,  not  riderless.  Sharp  and 
quick  came  the  ringing  reports  of  the  cracking  stock- 
whip; the  galloping  hoofs  behind  her  had  slackened 
their  pace.  Now  they  were  off  again,  but  in  retreat. 

Ann,  realizing  that  she  was  still  alive,  sat  down 
suddenly  on  a  twisted  ankle. 

After  a  second  Rodney  Marsh  galloped  up  to  her. 

"You  little  fool!"  he  shouted  furiously.  "What 
made  you  come  in  here?" 

Ann,  looking  up  at  him,  fumbling  desperately  at 
the  back  of  her  mind  for  an  adequately  abusive  re- 
tort, suddenly  burst  into  tears.  Oh,  how  she  hated 
herself  for  those  weak  tears!  But  her  ankle  was  very 
painful,  and  after  all,  when  you've  just  come  back 
from  the  gates  of  death,  to  be  shouted  at  and  called 
a  little  fool,  is  very  difficult  to  bear.  Besides,  she  knew 
she  was  a  little  fool!  That  made  it  worse. 

Marsh  dismounted,  and  came  close  beside  her.  The 
sight  of  her  tears  had  rather  nonplussed  him.  He 
remained  scowling  down  at  her— undecided  what  to 
do. 

In  a  moment  Ann  regained  her  self-control. 

"I  didn't  know  he'd  rush  at  me  in  that  horrible 
way,"  she  said.  "I've  never  seen  a  horse  behave  like 
that  before." 


Second  Impressions  31 

"He's  a  stallion,"  answered  Marsh  shortly.  "They're 
nearly  always  dangerous." 

"Oh!"  said  Ann. 

She  felt,  if  possible,  more  foolish  than  ever.  She 
rose,  trying  to  disguise  the  fact  that  it  was  not  very 
easy  to  use  her  wrenched  ankle. 

"Have  you  hurt  your  foot?" 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,"  she  said  airily,  and  achieved  a 
somewhat  painful  smile. 

"Get  up  on  my  horse." 

"Get  up . . ."  repeated  Ann.  How  was  she  to  get 
up? 

Marsh  solved  the  problem  by  lifting  her  bodily  and 
swinging  her  up  into  the  saddle.  She  sat  astride  look- 
ing down  at  him,  a  trifle  bewildered  by  her  sudden 
elevation. 

"I  suppose  you  can  ride." 

"Of  course  I  can't.  I've  never  been  on  a  horse  in 
my  life." 

"Where  have  you  lived  then?" 

"In  a  London  suburb." 

"Don't  they  usually  ride  there?" 

"Certainly  not." 

He  was  annoyed  at  her  tone.  It  was  as  though  he 
should  have  known  that  people  who  lived  in  suburbs 
didn't  ride. 

"You'd  better  hang  on  to  the  front  of  the  saddle 
then,  if  you  think  you're  likely  to  fall  off,"  he  said 
curtly. 

"It  must  be  wonderful  to  ride  as  you  do." 

Ann's  voice  was  soft,  her  own  humiliation  quite 
forgotten  as  she  thought  of  horse  and  rider  soaring 
so  easily  over  that  wickedly  treacherous-looking  bar- 
rier. 


32  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"I  haven't  thanked  you  yet  for  saving  me— risking 
your  life— jumping  barbed  wire." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"A  lot  of  risk  in  that!  Nigger  never  makes  a  mis- 
take over  wire.  He's  too  old  a  hand  at  it  for  that." 

"Do  you  mean  you've  jumped  it  before?" 

He  looked  up  into  her  face  to  see  if  she  was,  as  he 
would  have  put  it,  "pulling  his  leg,"  but  her  sweet, 
candid  eyes  gazed  down  at  him  in  genuine  amaze- 
ment. 

"Hundreds  of  times,"  he  answered. 

"It  was  the  most  beautiful  thing  I  ever  saw.  You 
and  your  horse  were  like  one  being— winged  for 
flight."  Suddenly  she  laughed.  "I  don't  know  how 
I  managed  to  find  time  to  think  all  that.  I  was  rather 
busy  just  then." 

He  looked  up  again  and  smiled  at  her.  He  was 
leading  Nigger  now;  walking  at  the  horse's  shoulder. 
They  reached  the  gate,  and  he  opened  it. 

"Let  me  ride  through— all  by  myself,"  she  said. 

Her  voice  was  like  a  coaxing  child.  The  young 
man  laughed. 

"Right  you  are.  Take  up  the  reins.  No!  not  like 
that.  In  your  left  hand.  There!  that  one  between 
those  fingers,  and  this  one— so." 

His  hands— roughened  and  soiled,  but  still  well- 
shaped  and  sensitive— guided  hers. 

"Don't  pull  on  the  bridle.  You'll  never  ride  if  you 
pull  on  a  horse's  mouth.  Good  hands  mean  every- 
thing in  a  rider." 

"And  you  have  better  hands  than  Mr.  Holmes." 

"Who  told  you  that?" 

"A  little  bird  told  me  that." 

"Biddy,  I'll  bet.  Biddy  always  barracks  for  me  as 


Second  Impressions  33 

a  rider.  But  that's  because  her  Dad  says  so.  What 
her  Dad  says  is  always  Gospel  truth  to  Biddy." 

Not  "Miss  Biddy"  then,  thought  Ann.  He  was  only 
a  servant,  after  all,  this  young  man,  but  evidently  he 
had  his  own  ideas  of  service. 

"Well,  don't  you  agree  with  Mr.  Holmes  and . . . 
Biddy?" 

"Oh,  there's  nothing  much  to  choose  between  us. 
We're  both  good  with  horses." 

No  false  pride  about  him!  He  didn't  trouble  to 
deny  self-evident  facts. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here— on  this  station?" 
she  asked. 

"All  my  life.  My  father  worked  for  old  Holmes 
when  I  was  just  a  little  nipper." 

"Haven't  you  ever  been  away?" 

"Yes,  I've  been  to  Christchurch  and  Auckland- 
saw  the  Grand  National  in  Christchurch  last  year." 

"Never  out  of  New  Zealand?" 

Ah!  That  was  tactless.  His  face  hardened  again. 
"He  thinks  I'm  being  patronizing,"  she  thought 
swiftly. 

"New  Zealand'll  do  me,"  he  answered. 

Very  touchy,  this  young  man!  She  must  choose 
her  phrases  more  carefully  in  future. 

They  passed  through  the  gate,  and  it  was  closed 
behind  them. 

"Couldn't  I  trot,  now?  Just  for  a  little  way— please 
let  me  trot."  He  looked  doubtful.  "Oh,  perhaps  it 
wouldn't  be  good  for  Nigger,  I  might  hurt  him." 

He  grinned  at  this. 

"He's  much  more  likely  to  hurt  you." 

"But  that  doesn't  matter— one  would  never  learn 
anything  if  one  were  afraid  of  being  hurt." 


34  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"Aren't  you  afraid?" 

"I  don't  think  so— I'll  have  to  find  out.  Do  let  me." 

"What  about  your  foot?" 

"Oh,  it's  ever  so  much  better:  Look!" 

She  stuck  her  foot  in  the  stirrup  leather  above  the 
iron,  and  leaned  her  weight  on  it. 

"That  scarcely  hurts  at  all  now.  Mayn't  I  go  a 
little  faster?" 

"All  right,"  he  said  grudgingly.  "Walk  him  up  to 
that  stump— turn  round  and  trot  back  to  me.  And 
don't  pull  him  round  just  with  the  bridle.  Let  him 
feel  your  knee  and  the  swing  of  your  body.  Riding's 
mostly  balance.  No!  don't  bother  about  the  stirrups. 
It's  dangerous  putting  your  feet  in  the  leathers, 
you'd  be  dragged  if  you  fell  off.  Hang  on  with  your 
knees  and  if  you're  feeling  very  unsafe  catch  hold  of 
the  front  of  the  saddle." 

She  did  as  she  was  told— reached  the  stump,  turned 
round  and  trotted  back  to  him.  It  was  a  very  undig- 
nified performance.  She  bumped  up  and  down  pro- 
digiously; and  alas!  she  was  compelled  to  cling  for 
safety  to  the  saddle;  but  she  reached  him  without 
mishap,  flushed  and  laughing. 

Though  Rodney  Marsh  jomed  in  her  laughter,  she 
felt  no  resentment.  In  fact  she  showed  such  sweet  and 
childish  gratitude  to  him  for  his  kindness,  that  he 
was  obliged  to  let  her  repeat  the  performance— again, 
and  yet  again.  Then  she  pleaded  to  be  allowed  to 
canter.  Against  his  better  judgment  Marsh  consented. 

Now  she  was  flying  towards  him,  bumping  and 
tossing  dangerously.  Nigger,  unused  to  this  proceed- 
ing, took  it  as  a  signal  to  increase  his  speed.  He  was 
going  at  a  hand-gallop  as  he  passed  Marsh;  and  in 


Second  Impressions  35 

another  two  seconds  Ann,  missing  the  saddle  which  so 
far  had  succeeded  in  catching  her  each  time  she  left 
it,  fell  in  a  little  heap  among  the  rushes. 

Marsh  ran  forward,  but  she  was  already  sitting  up 
and  laughing  at  him. 

"No,  I'm  not  a  bit  hurt."  She  rose  and  shook  her- 
self. "See!  no  bones  broken.  I  don't  think  I'm  even 
bruised.  Falling  off  is  quite  easy." 

"So  it  seems,"  said  Marsh. 

Nigger,  who  had  pulled  up  directly  he  had  de- 
posited her  in  the  rushes,  was  now  quietly  grazing  at 
a  little  distance.  Marsh  walked  over  and  caught  him 
by  the  trailing  bridle. 

"I  suppose  I  couldn't  try— just  once  more,  could  I?" 
asked  Ann.  "I'd  be  safer  next  time.  I  know  now  that 
one  must  just  sit  on  tight." 

"Yes,  that's  the  idea,"  agreed  Marsh  dryly.  "You've 
got  the  hang  of  it  all  right.  Just  sit  tight." 

"You're  laughing  at  me,"  said  Ann.  "Oh  well,  I 
suppose  I  did  look  idiotic.  But  I'm  going  to  learn  to 
ride— you  wait  and  see." 

"Yes,  but  I'm  not  going  to  teach  you.  I  oughtn't 
to  have  allowed  you  to  do  this  today— I'd  no  business 
to.  What  would  the  boss  have  said  to  me  if  I'd 
brought  you  home  with*a  broken  neck?" 

"It's  Mr.  Holmes  you're  thinking  of,  not  me?" 

"Well,  naturally  I'd  think  of  him  first.  I  shouldn't 
want  to  upset  him." 

Ann  laughed. 

"You're  certainly  frank." 

"No  good  telling  lies  about  it.  He  comes  first  with 
me— before  any  one." 

"You're  fond  of  him?" 

"He's  a  white  man." 


36  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

Ann  liked  his  voice  when  he  said  that. 

"Well,  thank  you  all  the  same  for  the  riding 
lesson,"  she  said.  "I'll  get  back  now." 

"You  can't  walk." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  can.  The  foot's  all  right  again.  See! 
It  scarcely  hurts  a  scrap.  It  was  only  a  little  bit  of  a 
twist  I  gave  it.  Just  painful  at  the  time— that's  all." 

"You're  not  walking,"  he  said;  and  quite  coolly 
swung  her  up  into  the  saddle  as  he  had  done  before. 

"I  thought  I  wasn't  to  ride  again,"  she  said  mis- 
chievously. 

"You're  not  going  to  ride,"  he  answered  grimly, 
"not  by  yourself.  You're  going  to  be  led." 

Ann  laughed,  but  she  was  quite  content  to  sit 
astride  Nigger  while  the  handsome  shepherd,  holding 
the  bridle  reins  over  his  arm,  walked  beside  her. 

Queer  that  she  should  feel  so  much  at  home  with 
him!  He  wasn't  a  gentleman;  not  in  the  sense  in 
which  she'd  always  used  the  word— not  in  the  sense 
that  Gerald  Waring  was,  for  instance.  Yet  of  the  two, 
which  man  had  treated  her  with  the  greater  courtesy? 
Certainly  Rodney  Marsh  had  spoken  roughly  and  had 
called  her  a  little  fool,  but  she'd  deserved  it.  She  had 
no  right  to  wander  out  alone  over  the  hills,  ignorant 
as  she  was  of  this  sort  of  life,  and  of  any  dangers  she 
might  encounter.  Women  who  landed  themselves  in 
difficulties  and  then  had  to  shriek  to  some  man  to 
come  and  rescue  them— risking  the  man's  life  thereby 
—were  idiots— perfectly  pernicious  idiots.  Marsh  had 
certainly  pooh-poohed  the  idea  of  danger  to  himself; 
but,  if  nothing  else,  at  least  she'd  been  a  nuisance  to 
him.  She  was  being  a  nuisance  now— delaying  him  on 
his  homeward  way.  Well,  she'd  try  to  be  particularly 
nice  to  make  up  for  it.  She'd  try  never  to  "conde- 


Second  Impressions  37 

scend"  to  him,  as  she  knew  that  secretly  she  did,  just 
a  little,  "condescend." 

"You're  playing  polo  in  the  practice  match  against 
Omoana  tomorrow,  aren't  you?" 

"So  the  boss  says." 

"We're  coming  down  to  watch  the  game— Mrs. 
Holmes  and  I,  and  the  children.  I  believe  we're 
bringing  tea." 

"Ever  seen  polo?" 

"Yes,  once  or  twice  at  Ranelagh." 

"Huh-Ranelagh!" 

She  knew  from  his  tone  that  he'd  heard  of  Ranelagh 
—that  he  was  thinking  she  was  being  "superior"  again. 

"Why  do  you  say  'Ranelagh'  like  that?"  she  asked. 

"Like  what?" 

"In  that  half  sneering  way." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"Yes,  you  do.  You  evidently  think  Ranelagh  has 
rather  a  grand  sound,  and  that  I'm  trying  to  be  grand 
in  saying  I've  been  there." 

"Well,  so  it  is,  isn't  it?" 

"Grand?  Well,  it's  a  smart  sort  of  club— but  lots 
of  people  who  aren't  a  bit  smart  can  get  tickets  at 
times.  That's  how  I  went— I'm  not  at  all  grand." 

"I  didn't  think  you  were,  but  I  don't  like  any  one 
who  puts  on  side." 

"Because  I'm  perfectly  natural,  you  think  I'm 
'putting  on  side,'  as  you  call  it,  when  you  said  you'd 
been  to  Christchurch  to  the  Grand  National?" 

"That's  different." 

"No,  it  isn't.  But  I'm  not  going  to  argue  with  you. 
I'm  very  grateful  to  you  for  what  you've  done  for  me 
today,  and  I  want  you  to  believe  that." 

He  was  silent,  and  after  a  moment  she  went  on: 


38  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"I'm  sorry  I  was  so  stupid  about . . .  crying  when 
you  drove  off  that . . .  that  horrible  horse.  But  I  was 
awfully  frightened,  and  you  shouted  at  me." 

"Well,  you  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  go 
into  that  paddock." 

His  tone  was  still  a  trifle  dogged,  but  it  was  dis- 
tinctly softened. 

"How  could  I  know?  I'm  ignorant  of  all  the  things 
that  are  just  a  matter  of  course  to  you;  but  then,  on 
the  other  hand,  I  probably  know  a  few  things  you 
don't." 

"Those  things  aren't  important." 

"Not  to  you— but  to  others  they  are.  There's  a 
pretty  big  slice  of  the  world  outside  New  Zealand, 
you  know."  Directly  the  words  were  spoken,  she  re- 
gretted them.  "I'm  sorry  I  said  that,  but  still  it's 
true.  It's  narrow-minded  to  think  that  nothing  out- 
side your  own  little  experience  matters." 

"I'll  be  narrow-minded  then." 

"Well,  I  won't.  I'm  going  to  get  you  to  teach  me 
lots  of  things." 

"Are  you?  I'm  not  so  sure." 

"I  am.  You're  obstinate  and  self-willed,  but  you're 
kind  too." 

"You  seem  to  know  a  lot  about  me." 

"I  do— you're  honest  and  brave." 

"Anything  more?" 

"Oh,  lots— I've  only  told  you  the  nice  things.  The 
others  would  take  too  long." 

He  laughed.  "Obstinate  and  self-willed!  That  isn't 
very  nice,  is  it?  Well,  here  we  are  at  the  stockyard. 
You'll  have  to  tell  me  the  rest  some  other  time." 

She  shook  her  head,  smiling  at  him. 

"No,  we  none  of  us  want  to  be  told  the  bad  things. 


Second  Impressions  39 

What's  the  use?  If  we're  honest,  we  know  them  al- 
ready." She  slid  down  from  the  saddle.  "Good-by, 
and  thank  you  ...  for  a  very  pleasant  afternoon." 

She  left  him  standing  in  front  of  the  garage  and 
made  her  way  up  towards  the  house. 

2. 

On  the  polo  ground— which  was  merely  a  tolerably 
flat  paddock  across  the  river  beyond  the  woolshed— 
the  last  spell  before  tea-time  was  now  in  progress. 

Holmes,  Rodney  Marsh,  Waring  and  Bill  Ralston, 
constituted  the  Tirau  team  playing  against  Omoana. 
The  Coast  Team— for  the  Wairiri  Tournament  in 
Christmas  week— would  consist  of  four  of  these  eight 
players.  This  was  not  polo  as  played  at  Ranelagh. 
Owing  to  the  roughness  of  the  ground  it  was  a  great 
deal  more  dangerous;  and  although  all  the  players 
were  magnificent  horsemen  and  strong  hitters,  some 
of  the  ponies  were  unschooled  and  green.  Waring  was 
the  only  one  of  the  two  teams  who  was  faultlessly 
turned  out  in  regulation  polo  kit.  Most  of  the  others 
wore  old  riding  breeches  and  loose  shirts. 

About  fifty  spectators— in  cars  and  buggies  drawn 
up  along  the  boundary  line— watched  the  game,  fol- 
lowing every  stroke  and  galloping  rush  of  the  players 
with  eager  interest.  A  fire  had  been  lighted  by  Ann 
and  Vera  Holmes  at  a  little  distance  from  the  cars  and 
nearer  the  river  bank;  and  two  tin  billies,  blackened 
by  the  smoke,  were  hung  above  it,  gipsy  fashion.  The 
referee's  whistle  announced  half-time,  and  the  sweat- 
ing ponies  were  handed  over  to  a  few  attendant  lads 
to  be  walked  about  the  field,  while  the  players  re- 
freshed themselves  with  tea. 


40  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"This  is  a  democratic  country,"  thought  Ann;  "a 
country  where  it  is  often  said  that  Jack  is  as  good  as 
his  master.  But  is  he— in  the  master's  eyes?"  Ann, 
looking  at  the  two  sharply-defined  groups  during  the 
interval  for  tea,  the  group  that  gathered  round  the 
Holmes's  rather  shabby  car,  and  that  which  had  for 
its  center  the  brand  new  Buick  driven  by  Mrs.  Bentley 
of  the  Omoana  "pub,"  answered  her  own  question  iw 
the  negative.  Only  one  of  the  polo  players  was  in- 
cluded in  Mrs.  Bentley's  party^-Rodney  Marsh. 

The  upper  classes  and  the  lower  were  as  distinctly 
typified  in  these  two  groups,  and  divided  as  sharply, 
as  "the  gentry"  would  be  in  England  from  those  of 
a  less  exalted  station.  But  what  constituted  a  claim 
to  "gentility"  here?  The  heritage  of  gentle  birth? 
Hardly  that,  for  though  Holmes  and  Waring  and 
others  were  undoubtedly  well  born,  Ralston's  grand- 
father had  been  a  grocer  in  a  small  provincial  town 
in  England,  while  at  least  two  of  the  wealthiest  sheep- 
farmers  now  enjoying  Vera  Holmes's  excellent  cakes 
and  sandwiches  had  sprung  from  almost  illiterate 
parents. 

"A  good  education,  a  profession,  or  the  ownership 
of  land,"  thought  Ann.  "But  particularly  the  owner- 
ship of  land.  Perhaps  that's  the  way  in  which  all  aris- 
tocracies arise— perhaps  there  is  some  virtue  in  the 
possession  of  estates  far  outweighing  the  mere  owner- 
ship of  money."  But  her  spirit  rebelled  a  little  against 
the  knowledge  that  the  young  man  with  whom  she'd 
talked  quite  frankly  and  happily  the  day  before,  was 
outside  the  charmed  circle  of  the  elect! 

She  was  standing  a  little  apart  from  the  others- 
waiting  near  the  camp  fire  for  the  second  billy  to  boil 
—when  Waring  approached  her.  He  put  his  hand 


Second  Impressions  41 

into  the  pockets  of  his  white  cord  riding-breeches,  and 
held  out  a  penny  on  his  open  palm. 

She  shook  her  head,  smiling  at  him. 

"I  don't  sell  my  thoughts,"  she  said.  "Not  for  so 
little  as  that,  at  any  rate." 

It  was  not  the  first  time  they  had  met  this  after- 
noon, and  she  was  conscious  that  the  resentment  she 
•4iad  felt  towards  him  during  that  little  scene  in  the 
schoolroom  five  days  previously,  had  evaporated. 
What  had  dispelled  4t?  His  good  looks,  his  daring 
horsemanship,  the  interest  he  excited  in  practically 
all  the  women  present,  or  his  carefully  veiled,  but 
none  the  less  persistent  pursuit  of  her?  Ann,  being 
honest,  knew  that  all  these  things  had  influenced  her, 
but  the  last  of  them  more  potently  than  all  the  others. 
She  told  herself  that  she  was  a  vain  little  flirt,  but  that 
didn't  prevent  her  from  smiling  into  the  rather  in- 
solent, sleepy-lidded  eyes  which  looked  at  her  so 
steadily  when  he  was  quite  sure  they  happened  to  be 
unobserved. 

Ann  now  labored  under  no  delusions  as  to  his 
intentions.  He  was  quite  willing  to  make  love  to  her, 
but  he  was  not  going  to  run  the  risk  of  having  the 
flirtation  discovered  by  others.  "He's  used  to  this  kind 
of  thing,"  thought  Ann,  "the  professional  philan- 
derer. He's  probably  made  love  to  every  woman  in 
the  district  before  now." 

She  ought  to  have  resented  the  boldly  expressed  ad- 
miration in  his  eyes,  but  she  didn't.  She  was  quite 
confident  of  being  able  to  deal  with  him  now;  the 
awkwardness  she  had  felt  during  their  interview  in 
the  schoolroom  had  disappeared.  Playing  with  fire,  as 
a  pastime  probably  began  with  Eve,  but  Ann  im- 
agined herself  warranted  fireproof.  So  she  remained 


42  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

for  a  few  moments  talking  and  laughing  with  Waring 
until  the  billy  boiled,  and  he  carried  it  back  to  Mrs. 
Holmes,  who  was  dispensing  tea. 

But  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Rodney  Marsh  was  not 
included  in  the  party  "above  the  salt"— or,  perhaps, 
because  of  that  fact— Ann  was  determined  not  to  leave 
the  polo  ground  without  having  had  a  word  or  two 
with  him.  He  shouldn't  have  cause  to  think  that  her 
frankly  given  comradeship  of  the  day  before  meant 
nothing;  and  an  opportunity  to  speak  to  him  was 
provided  for  her  by  Mrs.  Holmes,  who  at  the  close  of 
the  match  sent  the  governess  to  collect  the  little  girls 
from  the  other  end  of  the  ground. 

Biddy  and  Jo  were  as  usual  amongst  the  ponies  and 
the  attendant  grooms  (though  these  were  unofficial 
grooms,  being  Maori  boys,  shepherds,  lads  from  the 
small  milking  farms,  and  others)  and  Jo  was  dancing 
round  Rodney,  exclaiming: 

"Biddy's  not  going  to  ride  Playboy  home— I  am. 
You  promised  me— you  know  you  did!" 

"You're  neither  of  you  going  to  ride,"  said  Ann. 
"You're  to  run  along  to  the  car  at  once." 

There  was  a  slight  argument,  but  eventually  they 
set  off  towards  their  mother,  and  Ann  was  for  a  mo- 
ment alone  with  Marsh. 

"I  hope  I  didn't  give  Nigger  a  sore  back  yesterday," 
she  said. 

"I  don't  think  he  noticed  you  were  there,"  he 
answered. 

"I  wasn't— part  of  the  time,"  she  replied,  and  they 
both  laughed. 

"Rod,  we're  waiting  for  you!"  Mrs.  Bentley's  voice 
came  sharply  from  the  driver's  seat  of  the  Buick. 

In  the  back  of  the  car  sat  her  brother,  Jack  Smith— 


Second  Impressions  43 

the  young  man  who  had  chaffed  Rodney  about  the 
"old  school  ma'am"  on  the  day  of  Ann's  arrival. 

"Don't  be  all  night!  Come  along,"  the  woman  called 
impatiently. 

"Right  you  are— I'm  ready." 

Rodney  Marsh  lifted  his  hat  to  Ann,  climbed  up 
beside  Mrs.  Bentley,  and  the  Omoana  car  moved 
swiftly  off. 

Biddy  turned  to  look  over  her  shoulder  and  called: 

"Mummy's  waving  to  us  to  hurry,  Miss  Merrill!" 

"Yes,  wait  for  me." 

Conscious  of  a  curious  sense  of  discomfiture,  Ann 
was  glad  of  Biddy's  outstretched  hand.  She  had  be- 
lieved the  young  man  might  feel  slighted  if  she  took 
no  notice  of  him!  Well,  she  had  enough  sense  of 
humor  to  smile  at  her  own  expense,  but  the  smile 
was  a  little  rueful.  He  was  superbly  indifferent  to 
her  notice,  or  her  neglect!  Ann  recognized  that  this 
was  true,  and  was  annoyed  with  herself  because  she 
was  not  altogether  free  from  a  sense  of  chagrin.  But 
to  have  "condescended"  and  to  find  the  recipient  of 
the  condescension  profoundly  unconscious  of  it,  and 
unmoved  by  the  honor,  is  always  a  trifle  galling. 

"Rodney  goes  over  to  stay  at  Omoana  every  Satur- 
day night,"  chattered  Biddy.  "Emily  says  he  goes 
on  the  spree.  Dan's  going  to  take  his  ponies  home." 

Ann  felt  disgusted  with  herself.  Why  bother  her 
head  about  an  ignorant  young  man  who  "went  on 
the  spree?"  But  what  a  picture  he  was!  Who  could 
resist  the  temptation  of  looking  twice  at  this  shepherd 
with  the  proud  head  and  the  beautiful  physique  of  a 
Grecian  statue  come  to  life? 

Evidently  Mrs.  Bentley  couldn't,  thought  Ann 
drily. 


44  Wildf  Wild  Heart 

3- 

Ann  had  to  give  the  little  girls  their  evening  meal 
as  soon  as  they  reached  home. 

"I  know  you  won't  mind  having  something  with 
them,"  said  Vera  Holmes.  "We'll  be  such  a  crowd  in 
the  dining-room." 

Ann  didn't  mind  in  the  least.  She  would  rather  be 
with  the  children  than  with  so  many  strangers. 

Bill  Ralston  and  his  wife  and  her  sister,  Nell  Brun- 
ton,  Waring,  and  three  members  of  the  Omoana  Polo 
Team,  Kent,  Ganthorne  and  Stafford,  had  all  re- 
turned to  Tirau  to  dinner.  Sam  Stafford  was  the  only 
married  member  of  the  Omoana  trio,  and  his  wife, 
Mabel,  was  with  him. 

"We'll  probably  dance  or  play  bridge  or  something 
in  the  smoking-room  afterwards;  so  as  soon  as  the 
children  are  in  bed  you  could  come  in  and  join  us  if 
you  liked.  But  for  goodness'  sake  keep  those  wretched 
infants  out  of  the  way.  They're  such  a  nuisance  when 
visitors  are  here." 

Ann  had  soon  learned  that  the  one  supreme  duty 
expected  of  her  was  that  of  "keeping  the  children  out 
of  the  way."  . . .  She  was  far  more  nurse  than  gover- 
ness; but  if  Mrs.  Holmes  asked  her  to  perform  duties 
in  connection  with  the  children's  clothes,  meals,  and 
general  well-being,  which  she  might  not  have  been 
required  to  undertake  in  England,  her  employer  at 
any  rate  seemed  to  be  quite  willing  to  include  her 
in  all  the  social  life  of  the  station  and  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

Vera  Holmes  was  still  a  puzzle  to  Ann— but  a  fas- 
cinating puzzle.  For  though  at  times  she  was  irri- 
table and  inconsiderate  and  subject  to  sudden  fits  of 


Second  Impressions  45 

temper,  yet  something— that  impression  Ann  had  re- 
ceived at  first  of  an  unhappy  tormented  soul— seemed 
to  rouse  in  the  younger  woman  a  curious  sense  of 
sympathy.  And  like  the  little  girl  who  had  the  curl 
right  down  the  middle  of  her  forehead,  when  Vera 
Holmes  was  good,  she  was  very,  very  good.  No  one 
could  be  more  delightful,  or  more  charming  or  more 
amusing  than  Vera  Holmes  in  a  good  mood.  But  Vera 
in  a  bad  mood!  Even  the  children  had  learnt  to  recog- 
nize the  storm  signals  and  to  give  Mummy  a  wide 
berth  at  such  times. 

But  Ann's  sympathy  and  liking  for  Mrs.  Holmes 
did  not  blind  her  to  the  fact  that  probably  of  the  two, 
Dick  Holmes  was  more  to  be  pitied.  He  quite  evi- 
dently worshiped  the  turbulent-tempered  woman  he 
had  married,  and  she  hurt  him  daily  in  a  score  of 
ways.  Her  attitude  towards  the  children,  her  selfish- 
ness towards  him,  her  dislike  of  the  country,  were 
continual  pin-pricks.  But  nothing  alienated  his  af- 
fection. Ann  was  sure  of  this.  Perhaps  he  found  con- 
solation in  the  fervent  devotion  of  the  two  little  girls 
who  were  his  tireless  champions.  Daddy  to  them  was 
the  most  humorous  and  most  gifted,  and  most  om- 
nipotent and  adorable  of  all  mankind.  He  was  rather 
adorable— Ann  agreed  with  them  to  a  certain  extent 
here.  He  was  so  genuine,  and  so  kind.  Perhaps  not 
so  all-powerful  as  the  children  believed  him.  His 
gentleness  of  disposition  would  for  ever  make  it  im- 
possible for  him  to  act  the  strong,  silent  man,  but  he 
wasn't  lacking  in  character.  Ann,  trying  to  sort  out 
her  impressions,  decided  that  though  no  one  could 
describe  him  as  effeminate,  he  had  a  good  deal  of  the 
woman  in  him.  The  little  girls  didn't  so  much  mind 
if  Mummy  failed  to  come  and  say  "good  night"  to 


46  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

them,  but  if  for  any  reason  Daddy  didn't  turn  up— 
that  indeed  was  a  just  cause  for  complaint!  But  they 
were  seldom  forgotten  by  their  father. 

Tonight  Ann  had  found  them  troublesome.  If  they 
weren't  "out  of  hand,"  as  they  put  it,  they  were  re- 
markably near  to  being  so.  They  were  excited,  and 
declined  to  settle  down.  Well,  if  they  couldn't  go  out 
and  talk  to  the  grown-ups,  they'd  have  a  pillow-fight. 
No!  Ann  forbade  the  pillow-fight;  they  were  to  be 
quiet.  Well,  they'd  play  quoits  on  the  veranda.  No, 
they  were  to  stay  in  bed  and  go  to  sleep. 

Ann  knew  she  couldn't  leave  them  while  they  were 
in  this  restless  state,  and  from  the  open  windows  of  the 
smoking-room  she  could  hear  the  music  of  the  gramo- 
phone, and  the  sound  of  laughter.  They  were  dancing 
there!  Ann's  little  silver  shoes  beat  time  to  the  music. 
She  was  already  in  her  white  evening  gown.  Oh,  why 
wouldn't  the  children  go  to  sleep  and  release  her 
from  duty?  She  would  love  to  dance.  But  she  realized 
that  in  all  probability  she  would  be  kept  here  for 
hours.  On  other  nights  when  they  had  been  wakeful 
they  had  given  her  their  promise  not  to  leave  their 
beds,  but  tonight  she  could  extract  no  promise  from 
them. 

"Then  I  must  stay  here,"  she  said,  and  took  up  a 
book  to  read.  But  they  wouldn't  even  let  her  do  that. 
They  were  very  unkind  and  naughty  children,  she 
told  them. 
They  agreed. 

"We  have  to  be  naughty  sometimes,  we  can't  help 
it.  I  have  a  black  dog  that  comes  and  sits  on  my  left 
shoulder.  He's  called  Ponko.  And  Jo's  black  dog  is 
Bronko." 


Second  Impressions  47 

"He's  bigger  than  yours,"  said  Jo.  "Bronko's  as 
big  as  Playboy." 

"Ponko's  as  big  as  an  elephant." 

The  black  dogs  grew  in  size.  Bother  the  little 
wretches  and  their  black  dogs! 

"May  we  come  in?"  Holmes  with  another  man 
stood  in  the  doorway. 

Instantly  black  dogs  of  titanic  statue  were  for- 
gotten in  shrieks  of: 

"Daddy,  come  and  sit  on  my  bed!" 

"No,  you  sat  on  Jo's  last  night." 

"I'm  not  going  to  sit  on  anybody's  bed,"  said  their 
father  grimly.  "I'm  going  to  spank  you  both  good  and 
hard,  if  you  don't  behave  yourselves.  You've  kept  Miss 
Merrill  here  for  nearly  two  hours.  A  pair  of  ob- 
noxious children,  that's  what  you  are." 

"Noxious  weeds  like  briars  and  blackberries,"  ob- 
served Biddy. 

"Yes,  pests  to  the  sheep-farmer— to  one  sheep-farmer 
anyhow." 

"Not  you,  Daddy.  Now  don't  tell  stories.  You  love 
us." 

"When  you're  good  I  can  put  up  with  you." 

"Oh,  Biddy's  a  noxshus  weed!"  exclaimed  Jo  trium- 
phantly. "Biddy-biddys  are  awful  things.  Miss  Merrill 
got  them  all  stuck  over  her  skirt,  didn't  you,  Miss 
Merrill?— and  if  it  gets  in  the  sheep's  wool  it's  puf- 
fectly  terrible " 

"Jo,  be  quietl  Daddy's  going  to  tell  us  a  story." 

"Who  says  he  is?"  asked  Holmes. 

"I  say  so,"  said  Biddy. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Jo. 

Waring  had  moved  forward  from  the  doorway. 

"Come  and  dance,  Miss  Merrill." 


48  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

She  hesitated. 

"Go  along,"  said  Holmes.  "I'll  see  to  these  little 
devils." 

"Daddy,  you're  being  very  rude  to  your  beautiful 
children,  isn't  he,  Jo?" 

"Damned  rude,"  said  Jo. 

"Now!  Now!  That's  not  allowed,"  said  Holmes. 

But  unfortunately  both  Jo  and  Biddy  had  seen  that 
their  elders  were  laughing,  and  so  they  laughed  too. 

"You  said  devils,"  Joe  defended  herself.  "Damned's 
out  of  the  Bible  too.  It  means  'condemned'— that's 
all.  Miss  Hildred  told  us  one  day  when  you  said  it." 

"Waring,  take  Miss  Merrill  off  before  she  gives  me 
notice.  No  self-respecting  governess  should  be  called 
upon  to  listen  to  such  horrible  and  depraved  little 
girls!" 

(They  hated  being  called  "little  girls"  by  him— 
youngsters,  kids,  children,  devils— anything  was  better 
than  "little  girls"!) 

"So  namby-pamby!"  said  Biddy. 

Ann,  nothing  loath,  went  off  with  Waring  to  the 
smoking-room.  Waring  danced  well,  and  even  knew 
the  Charleston.  Ann  was  surprised.  Well,  she  needn't 
be,  he  told  her.  He'd  been  in  London  less  than  a  year 
ago.  But  when  the  dance  ended,  and  he  wanted  her 
to  walk  down  the  garden  with  him  as  far  as  the  tennis 
court,  Ann  said:  No,  she'd  spoil  her  shoes;  and  so 
they  sat  in  two  deck-chairs  on  the  veranda. 

But  it  was  not  her  feet  that  Ann  was  anxious  about. 
It  was  her  head.  She  didn't  want  to  lose  it.  She  had 
realized  during  the  dance  that  it  might  not  be  quite 
so  easy  to  play  with  fire  as  she  had  thought  during  the 
afternoon.  Discretion  was  the  better  part  of  valor. 
She  was  here  as  governess,  and  as  governess— a  quite 


Second  Impressions  49 

prudent,  well-behaved  governess— she  meant  to  stay. 
She  didn't  really  care  a  straw  for  Waring,  and  she 
didn't  flatter  herself  that  he  was  in  any  way  serious  as 
far  as  she  herself  was  concerned.  But  he  was— dis- 
turbing. He  meant  to  be.  It  was  easy  to  drift  into  a 
flirtation,  but  with  a  man  like  Gerald  Waring  it 
might  not  prove  quite  so  easy  to  find  one's  moorings 
again.  Yes,  the  veranda  was  decidedly  safer.  And  when 
Mrs.  Holmes  appeared  in  the  lighted  french  windows 
of  the  smoking-room,  she  was  glad  she  had  not  chosen 
even  the  smallest  rush-light  to  play  with;  for  in  Vera 
Holmes's  voice  was  a  sharp  note  that  Ann  had  learnt 
to  know  quite  well.  So  far,  it  hadn't  been  directed 
against  her— not  until  this  moment.  No  one  else  might 
have  sensed  anything  of  irritation  in  Mrs.  Holmes's 
tone.  But  Ann  was  quick.  The  elder  woman  didn't 
seem  altogether  pleased  that  she  had  appeared 
amongst  the  dancers.  Ann  realized  in  this  moment 
that  her  employer  would  not  be  likely  to  tolerate  any 
flirtation  carried  on  by  "the  governess."  Well,  Mrs. 
Holmes  should  be  given  no  cause  for  disapproval,  de- 
cided Ann. 

"I  wish  you'd  get  me  some  aspirin,  Miss  Merrill. 
I've  got  an  awfully  bad  head.  There's  a  bottle  on  my 
dressing-table,  or  in  the  medicine  chest,  or  somewhere 
in  my  room.  And  bring  a  glass  of  water  from  the 
dining-room,  will  you?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

Ann  rose  quite  cheerfully  to  do  as  she  was  asked, 
and  passed  down  the  lighted  hall  to  Mrs.  Holmes's 
bedroom.  The  women's  wraps  were  in  this  room— the 
men  had  used  Holmes's  room  opposite  in  which  to 
change.  Ann  understood  that  Mrs.  Holmes  was  a  bad 
sleeper.  She  walked  in  her  sleep  sometimes,  and  had 


50  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

warned  Ann  not  to  be  surprised  if  she  entered  her 
room  unexpectedly  in  the  dark. 

"Just  lead  me  back  to  bed  if  I'm  still  asleep.  I  may 
wake  up  quite  naturally;  but  don't  be  frightened  and 
scream  at  me." 

Searching  now  with  a  lighted  candle  on  the 
dressing-table  for  the  aspirin,  Ann  noticed  that  the 
french  windows  leading  to  the  eastern  veranda  were 
open. 

"I  wonder  if  she  leaves  them  open  all  night,"  she 
thought.  "Not  very  safe  if  she's  inclined  to  wander." 
But  the  wire  screens  were  closed.  "Perhaps  she  has 
some  way  of  fastening  those." 

It  was  some  time  before  Ann  found  the  aspirin  and 
got  the  water  from  the  dining-room;  and  when  she 
returned  to  the  veranda  Mrs.  Holmes  was  there 
alone.  She  was  sitting  in  the  shadow  with  her  hand 
over  her  eyes.  For  a  moment  Ann  thought  she  had 
been  crying.  Then  she  dismissed  such  a  foolish  idea. 

"How  does  the  head  feel  now?"  she  asked. 

"Perfectly  rotten,"  answered  Vera.  "Neuralgia,  I 
think.  I  suppose  I  shan't  sleep  a  wink  tonight." 

She  took  the  aspirin,  and  swallowed  it. 

Ann  hesitated  for  a  moment  beside  her. 

"Were  you  displeased  with  me  for  dancing,  Mrs. 
Holmes?"  she  said. 

"No,  of  course  not.  What  makes  you  ask  that?" 

There  was  a  queer  harsh  note  in  the  elder  woman's 
voice. 

"I  don't  want  to  displease  you,"  went  on  Ann.  "I'm 
happy  here,  and  I  want  to  stay." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  love  this  kind  of  life.  It  fascinates  me 
—and  I'm  fond  of  the  children  and . . .  and  of  you." 


Second  Impressions  51 

"I  don't  think  I've  done  much  to  make  you  fond  of 
me." 

"Do  you  think  it's  what  people  do  that  makes  you 
fond  of  them?  I  think  it's  what  they  are." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  Mrs. 
Holmes  said  abruptly: 

"And  what  do  you  think  I  am?" 

Ann  hesitated. 

"It's  difficult  to  put  what  I  feel  into  words.  I  know 
I  don't  really  understand  you— you're  too  . . .  too  com- 
plex to  grasp  quickly.  That's  what  makes  you  so  inter- 
esting." 

Mrs.  Holmes  laughed. 

"You're  a  quaint  child.  And  are  others— the  Ral- 
stons,  Mr.  Waring,  Dick— are  they  complex  too?" 

"Oh  no— they're  much  easier  to  understand." 

"Well  explain  them.  I  didn't  know  we  had  such 
a  famous  judge  of  character  here.  What  about  the 
Ralstons?" 

"I've  only  just  met  them.  I  think  they're  jolly, 
good-hearted,  healthy-minded  sort  of  people.  But  I 
haven't  thought  much  about  them." 

"Really!  And  Mr.  Waring?" 

Ann  was  silent. 

"Have  you  thought  much  about  him?  Does  he 
interest  you?" 

"Yes,  in  a  way.  Am  I  being  impertinent,  talking 
about  your  friends  like  this?" 

"Not  at  all.  You're  amusing.  Go  on  with  your 
analysis." 

She  took  out  a  cigarette,  and  lit  it. 

"He's  attractive,  but  he's  . . .  selfish." 

"All  men  are  selfish." 

"Oh  no,"  said  Ann  quickly,  "Mr.  Holmes  isn't. 


52  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

He's  very  unselfish.  He'd  always  sacrifice  himself  for 
any  one  he  loved." 

"For  me,  for  instance?" 

"Of  course.  But  he's  kind  to  every  one,  I  think. 
Rodney  Marsh  calls  him  'a  white  man.'  " 

"When  did  you  see  Rodney  Marsh?" 

"Yesterday,  when  I  was  walking  out  at  the  back  of 
the  run.  I  twisted  my  ankle  a  little  and  he  helped  me 
home.  Let  me  ride  his  horse." 

"Really." 

Mrs.  Holmes  obviously  wasn't  interested  in  the 
head-shepherd. 

"Mr.  Holmes  has  told  me  I  may  have  a  horse  to 
ride— all  of  my  own— while  I'm  here.  Isn't  it  good  of 
him?" 

"You  must  ride  if  you  take  the  children  out." 

Ann  felt  that  Mrs.  Holmes  was  no  longer  paying 
much  attention  to  the  conversation.  The  Ralstons 
came  out  to  say  "good  night";  and  Ann  thought  it 
might  be  more  tactful  on  her  part  if  she  slipped 
away  to  bed. 


But  she  couldn't  sleep  at  once.  She  had  been  ex- 
cited by  her  day.  By  new  scenes  and  new  faces,  and 
perhaps  more  than  a  little  by  Gerald  Waring.  She 
tried  not  to  think  of  him.  In  her  heart  of  hearts  she 
knew  he  wasn't  worth  thinking  about,  and  that 
the  interest  he  excited  in  her— that  he  deliberately 
endeavored  to  excite— was  not  a  very  healthy  interest. 
For  it  had  in  it  an  element  of  baseness.  And  he  was 
not  troubled  with  scruples  as  far  as  women  were  con- 
cerned. His  manner  made  that  plain  enough.  She 


Second  Impressions  53 

hoped  he  wouldn't  come  often  to  Tirau.  He  was 
staying  tonight,  but  leaving  early  in  the  morning. 
He  had  told  her  he  was  beginning  his  mustering  next 
day  for  the  shearing  at  Kopu. 

Ann  dozed  for  an  hour  or  two,  only  to  wake  per- 
fectly convinced  that  for  the  rest  of  the  night  she 
would  sleep  no  more.  She  struck  a  match,  and  looked 
at  her  watch.  Well,  it  was  nearly  three,  and  the  night 
was  over.  Why  not  get  up  and  see  the  day  break  over 
the  dew-wet  paddocks  and  the  dim  quiet  hills?  She 
loved  the  dawn,  but  she  was  usually  too  sleepy  and 
too  lazy  to  leave  her  bed  at  sunrise.  Now  she  would 
have  the  mystery  of  the  waking  world  all  to  herself, 
and  she  would  see  this  new  strange  land  in  a  new  and 
lovely  way.  Suddenly  a  longing  possessed  her  to  watch 
the  sun  come  up  from  the  sea.  How  wonderful  the 
line  of  foaming  breakers  rolling  in  from  the  wide 
Pacific  would  look  in  the  mysterious  dawn.  It  was  less 
than  two  miles  beyond  the  woolshed  and  the  river  to 
the  beach.  She  could  cross  the  swing  bridge  down  by 
the  sheep  yards,  and  walk  in  the  pale  light  of  the 
coming  day  across  the  paddocks  to  the  sandhills,  and 
the  sea. 

She  rose  and  dressed,  and  passed  out  without  a 
sound  across  her  veranda  into  the  garden.  The  stars 
were  still  bright,  and  there  was  a  faded  moon.  A 
little  breeze  moved  through  the  trees.  Surely  the  dawn 
was  late  in  breaking?  And  then  suddenly  Ann  remem- 
bered that  her  watch  had  been  put  forward  to  station 
time,  which  was  an  hour  ahead  of  town  time.  Only 
about  two  o'clock  then,  instead  of  three!  How  stupid 
of  her!  She  had  rounded  the  front  of  the  house,  and 
was  on  the  eastern  side  when  this  realization  came 
to  her.  She  stopped.  What  should  she  do?  Return 


54  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

to  her  room  and  read  for  another  hour,  or  go  on? 
But  as  she  hesitated  she  was  suddenly  aware  that 
some  one  else  was  in  the  garden  not  far  away  from 
her.  Along  the  path  towards  the  veranda  a  shadowy 
form  was  passing.  For  a  second  Ann  believed  that 
she  had  been  seen,  and  recognized,  for  the  figure 
halted  and  stood  rigid,  then  turned  from  the  house, 
and  with  uncertain  steps  came  forward.  As  the  moon- 
light shone  on  the  advancing  woman's  face,  Ann  knew 
that  it  could  only  be  by  chance  that  the  draped  figure 
stumbled  towards  the  spot  where  she  was  standing; 
for  Vera  Holmes's  eyes  were  closed.  She  was  walking 
in  her  sleep. 

Ann  had  been  warned  of  this,  but  it  was  her  first 
vision  of  a  sleep-walker;  and  in  the  shadowy  garden 
where  the  tree-tops  whispered  eerily  under  the  stars, 
the  sight  was  uncanny,  and  more  than  a  little  terrify- 
ing. Quickly  into  her  mind  flashed  remembrance  of 
what  Mrs.  Holmes  had  said  when  discussing  her  in- 
somnia. "Don't  wake  me— lead  me  back  to  bed." 
Mastering  her  fear,  Ann  took  the  figure  by  the  arm, 
very  gently,  so  that  she  might  not  waken  the  sleeper, 
and  together  they  moved  slowly  towards  the  house. 
Would  she  be  able  to  mount  to  the  veranda,  Ann 
wondered?  Yes!  After  a  moment's  hesitation  Vera 
Holmes's  slippered  foot  had  found  the  step,  and  they 
were  together  near  the  bedroom  window.  Ann  could 
feel  beneath  her  hand  the  woman's  arm  shaking  as  if 
with  ague— all  her  body  under  the  silk  wrapper  was 
trembling.  Then  all  at  once  she  seemed  to  waken. 
Her  eyes  opened,  and  she  stared  at  Ann  in  terror. 
Something  in  the  wild  eyes  moved  Ann's  heart  to  a 
sharp  pity.  She  took  the  trembling  figure  in  her 
strong  young  arms,  and  held  her  tight. 


Second  Impressions  55 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  she  said.  "It's  only  me— 
Ann  Merrill— you  were  walking  in  your  sleep.  It's 
all  right  now." 

Then  suddenly,  she  knew  that  on  her  shoulder 
Vera  Holmes  was  sobbing;  and  she  soothed  her  as  she 
would  have  soothed  a  child. 

"Hush!  Hush!  Don't  cry!  Come  back  with  me! 
Into  your  room— to  bed." 

She  pulled  wide  the  wire-screened  door,  and  led 
the  wanderer  through,  felt  for  the  bed,  and  soon  had 
wrapped  the  blankets  tightly  round  the  weeping 
woman  whose  distress  she  longed  to  comfort. 

"Shall  I  light  the  lamp?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Vera  Holmes. 

"Very  well— lie  still.  There's  nothing  to  be  fright- 
ened of.  How  lucky  that  I  met  you.  You  might  have 
wandered  down  into  the  paddocks.  Are  you  warmer 
now?" 

"Yes,  go  back  to  your  room " 

"I  don't  like  to  leave  you." 

"I'm  all  right  now." 

Her  voice  was  more  controlled  and  steady. 

"Was  I  walking  in  my  sleep?" 

"Yes." 

"It  was  good  of  you  to  help  me."  The  shivering 
and  the  sobbing  were  abating.  "Why  were  you  out 
there— just  then?" 

"I  thought  the  dawn  was  breaking  and  I  was  wake- 
ful. I  wanted  to  see  the  sunrise." 

"The  dawn?  But  it's  too  early  for  the  dawn." 

"I  know— I  forgot  that  my  watch  was  set  at  station 
time." 

"It's  only  just  after  two  by  town  time,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes." 


56  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"Go  back  to  your  room.  I'm  sure  I  shall  sleep  now." 

"Wouldn't  you  rather  I  stayed  with  you  for  a  little 
while?" 

"No— not  now— I  know  I'll  sleep." 

"Good  night  then." 

"Good  night." 

Back  in  her  own  room  Ann  lay  down  for  half  an 
hour,  waiting  for  the  dawn  to  break.  But  she  did  not 
see  it.  She  fell  asleep  instead.  Yet  on  the  edge  of 
dreamland  she  was  conscious  of  some  question  she 
had  meant  to  ask.  Some  little  explanation  she  had 
wanted.  What  was  it?  Never  mind!  It  couldn't  be 
of  any  importance. 

She  was  sleeping  soundly  when  Emily  entered 
with  her  morning  tea. 


Ill 

The  Clash  of  Temperament 


i. 

A  WEEK  later  Ann  really  did  see  the  sunrise. 

Since  her  adventure  with  Mrs.  Holmes  in  that  mys- 
terious hour  before  the  dawn,  the  girl  had  often 
wakened  from  sleep,  startled  at  some  unusual  sound, 
wondering  if  the  poor  somnambulist  was  again  rest- 
less. But  each  occasion  proved  a  false  alarm.  Then 
came  a  night  when,  roused  from  a  deep  sleep,  she  felt 
convinced  she  was  not  mistaken.  A  stealthy  footstep 
had  sounded  in  the  hall!  It  could  not  be  either  Mrs. 
Pratt  or  Emily,  for  they  did  not  come  up  from  the 
cottage  to  the  homestead  before  six  in  the  morning. 
She  listened  breathlessly.  Undoubtedly  some  one  was 
moving  about  now  in  the  kitchen.  Suppose  Mrs. 
Holmes  in  one  of  her  nocturnal  rambles  set  the 
wooden  house  on  fire! 

Ann  thrust  her  feet  into  her  slippers,  and  hurriedly 
threw  on  a  wrapper.  Making  her  way  along  the  pas- 
sage, she  saw  a  light  under  the  kitchen  door.  Well! 
At  any  rate  she  wouldn't  this  time  have  the  uncanny 
experience  of  meeting  Mrs.  Holmes  in  the  dark.  That 
was  a  comfort.  She  opened  the  door  gently,  and  saw 
the  lamp  lighted,  a  fire  burning  in  the  stove,  steam 
coming  from  the  kettle,  and  a  man  bending  over  a 

57 


58  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

saucepan  in  which  eggs  were  being  cooked— and  this 
at  an  hour  or  two  after  midnight! 

A  strange  proceeding!  The  meal  could  scarcely  be 
supper,  seeing  that  the  entire  family  had  retired  to 
rest  shortly  before  ten  o'clock.  And  breakfast,  soon 
after  midnight,  would  surely  entail  very  little  fast  to 
break!  The  man  at  the  stove  was  clad  in  an  old  coat 
and  riding  trousers;  and  when  he  turned  she  saw,  to 
her  still  further  astonishment,  that  he  was  Rodney 
Marsh! 

"What  has  happened?"  she  whispered.  "Is  any  one 
ill?" 

He  turned  to  look  at  her  in  some  surprise.  She  had 
closed  the  door  behind  her  in  case  she  should  disturb 
the  sleeping  house. 

"What  are  you  doing— up  at  this  time  in  the  morn- 
ing?" he  asked  in  his  turn. 

"I  wondered  who  was  here." 

"I'm  just  getting  some  breakfast  for  the  boss." 

"Why?  Is  he  going  away?" 

"Going  away!  Of  course  not.  We're  only  starting 
to  muster." 

"In  the  middle  of  the  night?" 

He  was  quite  coolly  setting  things  on  the  table. 

"Don't  you  know  that  sheep  have  to  be  mustered 
before  dawn?  After  sunrise  they  scatter.  It  makes  the 
work  twice  as  hard.  At  night  they're  all  pretty  well 
together  on  the  higher  country." 

Through  the  door  behind  her,  Dick  Holmes  en- 
tered. He  looked  rather  more  astonished  than  she 
had  done,  but  it  was  at  her  appearance  here  at  this 
hour,  not  the  shepherd's. 

"Miss  Merrill  thought  I  was  a  burglar,"  said  Rod- 
ney, grinning. 


The  Clash  of  Temperament  59 

"We're  mustering  this  morning.  Shearing  begins 
tomorrow,"  explained  Holmes. 

"I'm  sorry,"  returned  Ann,  a  trifle  abashed. 

"Not  at  all,  the  pleasure's  ours.  Don't  run  away. 
Rodney  always  wakes  me  and  sees  that  I  get  breakfast 
before  we  start.  Don't  go.  Have  a  cup  of  tea." 

"There  you  are,"  said  Marsh,  setting  a  cup  on  the 
table  in  front  of  her.  "Bread  and  butter?" 

Ann  did  not  stop  to  think  that  well-conducted 
governesses  do  not  as  a  rule  sit  down  in  their  dressing- 
gowns  at  1.30  A.M.  to  take  tea  in  the  kitchen  with  the 
master  of  the  house  arid  the  head-shepherd.  She  sat 
down. 

"I  feel  as  if  this  were  an  air-raid  tea  party,"  she  said. 

"You  don't  remember  them,  do  you?" 

"Rather.  I  was  ten  when  the  war  started." 

"I  was  nearly  smashed  up  by  the  bomb  that 
dropped  at  Swan  and  Edgar's  corner.  I  was  home  on 
leave  from  France.  I  had  the  wind  up  all  right  that 
night." 

"I  remember  seeing  the  barricades  there  next  day," 
said  Ann. 

She  and  Holmes  continued  to  discuss  the  war.  Rod- 
ney Marsh  was  out  of  this,  but  at  last  Holmes  turned 
to  him: 

"Marsh  has  a  grievance.  He  was  born  too  late.  Only 
sixteen  when  the  war  ended,  poor  chap.  If  he'd  only 
been  a  few  years  older  he  might  have  been  flourishing 
a  wooden  leg  by  now,  or  still  coughing  up  poison  gas, 
or  enjoying  a  bit  of  lead  in  his  lung,  by  way  of  a 
treat.  It's  a  darn  shame  the  way  some  people  have 
all  the  fun,  isn't  it,  Rod?" 

"Oh,  well!  I  wish  I'd  seen  it,  all  the  same,"  grum- 
bled Marsh. 


60  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"Do  you?  Well,  I  suppose  that's  what  we  all  wished 
—before  we  saw  it!" 

Holmes  dismissed  the  subject,  and  he  and  Rodney 
talked  of  other  matters.  The  shearing— of  Waring 
having  already  "cut  out"  at  Kopu.  Ann,  sipping  her 
hot  tea,  and  nibbling  her  bread  and  butter,  was 
thoroughly  enjoying  herself.  But  at  last  Holmes  rose. 

"I  think  we'd  better  push  off." 

They  were  gone.  And  as  Ann  dressed  and  went 
out  to  see  the  sunrise,  she  felt  that  she  knew  and  liked 
both  men  better  since  that  very  unconventional  break- 
fast in  the  dawn. 


2. 

Shearing  had  begun.  Sitting  in  the  school-room  on 
the  hill,  one  could  hear  from  across  the  paddocks  the 
beat  of  the  engine  at  the  woolshed,  the  barking  of 
dogs,  and  the  bleating  of  sheep.  Men  moving  about 
in  the  hot  sunshine  amongst  the  dusty  yards  were 
whistling  and  shouting  at  their  dogs.  A  thin  column 
of  smoke  rose  up  from  the  camp  fire  near  the  tent  of 
the  Maori  shearers.  The  engine  stopped.  That  meant 
ten  o'clock,  and  smoke-o  for  all  hands.  They  had 
started  at  five,  with  an  hour  off  for  breakfast. 

The  little  girls  were  restless— longing  to  be  off 
across  the  paddocks  to  the  shed. 

"Not  until  eleven,"  said  Ann.  "Then  no  more 
lessons." 

"You're  coming  down  too?" 

"Of  course  I  am— I've  never  seen  shearing.  You'll 
have  to  show  me  everything." 

"Rodney  and  Dad  have  just  brought  in  a  mob  of 
sheep.  They'll  be  there  too." 


The  Clash  of  Temperament  61 

The  flies  buzzed  round  them  under  the  hot  iron 
roof;  out  in  the  garden  locusts  rasped;  but  the  inter- 
minable hour  passed  at  last,  and  then  hats  were  put 
on,  and  away  they  all  sped  across  the  paddocks  to  the 
shed.  The  engine  was  beating  steadily,  running  the 
machines  within  the  shed,  where  the  sweating  shearers 
passed  comb  and  cutter  over  the  prostrate  sheep, 
bringing  off  the  gray  matted  fleece  in  one  thick  piece. 
Holmes  and  Rodney  were  in  the  yards,  drafting  the 
ewes  and  lambs  through  the  race— the  swinging  gate, 
shutting  mothers  into  one  yard,  children  into  another. 
What  an  alarmed  protest  of  bleating  and  baa-ing 
filled  the  air!  The  men  shouting  to  hurry  them  on, 
the  dogs  barking,  and  the  Maori  boys— the  sheep-os— 
laughing  and  chattering  as  they  filled  up  the  pens 
inside  the  shed  ready  for  the  shearers. 

"Come  along  to  give  us  a  hand?"  shouted  Holmes 
to  Ann. 

She  nodded,  smiling  at  him,  and  leaned  against  the 
outer  post  and  rail  fence  of  the  yards.  He  came  across 
to  her. 

"Like  to  have  a  look  at  the  shed  first?" 

"I'd  love  to." 

He  glanced  a  trifle  doubtfully  at  her  fresh  linen 
frock. 

"You'll  probably  get  a  bit  dirty  in  there.  What 
about  your  dress?" 

"It'll  wash,"  she  answered  cheerfully. 

"Come  on,  then.  Come  on,  young  'uns." 

He  led  the  way  in  at  the  back  of  the  shed.  Along 
the  length  of  the  building  the  shearers  were  ranged, 
each  man  at  his  machine;  they  were  all  Maoris,  clad 
in  old  belted  trousers,  with  a  wisp  of  singlet,  or 


62  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

striped  football  jersey,  on  the  upper  part  of  their 
sweating  brown  bodies. 

As  each  sheep  was  shorn  the  shearer  stepped  across 
"the  board,"  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  pen— kept 
full  by  the  sheep-os— and  hauling  out  another  animal 
from  within,  threw  the  clumsily  matted  beast  on  its 
back.  Then  the  comb  and  cutter,  guided  by  an  ex- 
pert hand,  moved  swiftly  under  the  wool;  and  within 
an  extraordinarily  short  space  of  time  the  whole  fleece 
lay  on  the  greasy  floor,  and  a  slim,  creamily  shining 
creature— bewildered  at  the  sudden  and  drastic  beauty 
treatment— was  on  its  four  legs  once  more,  being 
hustled  through  the  trap-door  out  into  the  counting 
pen  in  the  yards  beyond. 

The  fleece-os— two  grinning  Maori  girls  in  colored 
cotton  dresses— were  kept  busy  gathering  up  the  dirty 
fleeces  and  throwing  them  on  the  classing  table;  while 
the  shed  hands— two  more  girls  with  brooms— were 
hard  at  work  sweeping  "the  board"  clear  of  dirty 
matted  ends  of  wool  which  were  not  to  go  into  the 
press. 

A  fat  smiling  Maori  woman  stood  at  the  classing 
table.  She  felt  the  staple  of  each  fleece,  and  then 
threw  them  one  by  one  into  different  bins,  according 
to  grade  and  quality.  Two  men  at  the  iron-framed 
wool  press  took  the  fleeces  from  the  bins,  and  rammed 
them  into  jute  bales  which,  when  tightly  pressed, 
would  be  sewn  up  and  rolled  over  to  an  adjoining 
shed,  to  be  stenciled  with  the  station  mark. 

Ann  thought  the  inside  of  the  shed  was  interesting, 
but  she  liked  the  yards  better;  and  later,  when  armed 
with  a  leafy  willow  branch  she  was  instructed  to  keep 
the  sheep  moving  towards  the  race,  she  found  she  was 
quite  enjoying  herself.  This  was  the  sort  of  life  she'd 


The  Clash  of  Temperament  63 

love,  she  reflected.  So  much  nicer  to  be  out  in  the 
open  all  day  long,  with  the  sun,  and  the  wind,  and 
the  blue  sky,  than  to  be  shut  up  indoors.  Well,  per- 
haps some  day  she  could  have  a  little  farm  of  her 
own.  What  would  it  cost,  she  wondered?  Nearly  £400 
—the  balance  of  the  money  her  mother  had  left  her—- 
was safely  lodged  in  the  savings  bank  in  Wairiri.  But 
that  wouldn't  go  far  in  buying  a  farm,  she  feared. 
She  was  to  get  another  £200  when  she  was  twenty-five, 
and  if  she  saved  . . .  No!  It  didn't  sound  practicable. 
Still,  most  dreams  weren't  easily  realized. 

"You'll  be  growing  into  a  regular  farmer  soon," 
said  a  voice  beside  her. 

Rodney  Marsh,  begrimed  and  dusty— his  soiled 
shirt  open  at  the  neck,  his  sleeves  rolled  up  above  his 
elbows,  and  his  old  felt  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head- 
stood  beside  her. 

"Just  what  I  was  thinking  I'd  like  to  be,"  she  an- 
swered, flourishing  her  willow  branch,  and  shouting 
"Shoo!"  at  one  of  the  last  hesitating  sheep. 

Marsh  laughed. 

"Wonderful  fine  farmer  you'd  make!"  he  jeered. 

"A  better  one  than  you  think,  perhaps,"  she  an- 
swered briskly. 

"What  do  you  know  about  sheep?" 

"Nothing— at  present.  But  I  could  learn.  I've  learnt 
not  to  fall  off  when  I  canter,  at  any  rate." 

"That's  a  great  lot  to  know,  isn't  it?" 

"I  don't  mind  being  laughed  at.  What  are  all  those 
things  in  the  wool  of  the  sheep?" 

The  laughter  died  out  of  Marsh's  face. 

"Bathurst  burr,"  he  answered  shortly. 

"What  the  children  call  'biddy-biddy'?" 

"Yes." 


64  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"It  makes  a  difference  in  the  value  of  the  wool, 
doesn't  it?" 

He  nodded,  a  little  frown  drawing  down  his  brows 
above  troubled  eyes. 

"Fleeces  are  light,  too.  The  dry  winter  and  spring 
meant  very  little  feed  for  the  stock." 

"Will  it  be  a  bad  shearing?" 

"Just  about  as  bad  as  it  can  be.  A  record  bad  clip, 
I  should  say." 

"Poor  Mr.  Holmes.  How  worried  he  must  be." 

"Well,  you've  got  to  take  the  rough  with  the 
smooth.  But  things  haven't  been  too  easy  for  him 
lately,  I'm  thinking." 

He  pulled  himself  up  suddenly,  and  shot  a  little, 
half-resentful  glance  at  the  girl  beside  him,  as  though 
by  some  obscure  mind  process  he  blamed  her  for  his 
lapse  into  this  semi-confidential  discussion  of  "the 
boss." 

"All  sheep-farmers  have  bad  years  and  good  years," 
he  went  on.  "You've  got  to  expect  a  poor  clip  some- 
times." 

Hicky— the  big  half-caste  in  charge  of  the  shearing 
gang— appeared  at  the  back  of  the  shed,  and  hailed 
Marsh. 

"Come  here  a  minute,  Rod." 

There  was  an  easy  assurance,  almost  insolence  of 
command  in  the  tone,  and  Ann  knew  that  the  young 
shepherd  beside  her  stiffened. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  coolly. 

"The  boss  wants  you." 

"That's  all  right,  Hicky,"  said  Holmes,  who  now 
appeared  beside  the  half-caste  in  the  doorway.  Hicky, 
dismissed,  went  back  into  the  shed,  and  Holmes, 


The  Clash  of  Temperament  65     . 

followed  by  the  two  little  girls,  made  his  way  out  into 
the  yards. 

Ann  drove  the  last  sheep  into  the  race  as  Marsh 
moved  forward  to  meet  "the  boss";  and  then  while 
the  two  men  talked  together,  the  children  joined  Ann 
in  the  shade  of  the  willows  outside  the  post  and  rail 
fence. 

After  a  moment  the  engine  stopped.  It  was  twelve 
o'clock,  the  shearers'  dinner  time!  Across  the  paddocks 
Biddy  and  Jo  raced  back  to  the  homestead,  and  Ann 
followed  more  slowly  with  Holmes.  She  could  see  that 
something  had  put  him  out  and  concluded  that  the 
prospect  of  the  poor  clip  was  the  cause  of  his  annoy- 
ance. But  when  he  spoke  she  realized  that  the  worry, 
though  more  immediate,  was  less  serious. 

It  appeared  that  Marsh  and  the  burly  half-caste 
were  on  bad  terms,  and  the  sheep-farmer's  chief  pre- 
occupation at  the  moment  was  to  prevent  any  open 
disagreement. 

"I  wouldn't  have  engaged  Ricky's  gang  if  I  hadn't 
been  forced  to,"  said  Holmes.  "One  doesn't  want 
trouble  at  shearing  time,  and  they're  both  difficult 
customers  to  handle.  However  if  they  stick  to  their 
own  jobs  there's  no  necessity  for  them  to  come  up 
against  one  another.  And  Hicky  spends  most  of  his 
evenings  at  the  Omoana  'pub'." 

"Perhaps  that's  the  cause  of  the  trouble,"  said  Ann 
shrewdly. 

Holmes  shrugged. 

"It  may  be.  A  pity  Rod  has  got  mixed  up  with 
that  crowd.  He's  too  fine  a  lad  for  them.  However, 
he's  twenty-five  and  it's  his  own  business,  not  mine. 
All  I  ask  is  that  he  doesn't  let  his  private  quarrels 
interfere  with  my  work." 


66  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

During  luncheon  Ann  realized  that  the  likelihood 
of  a  bad  clip,  and  the  trouble  between  the  head- 
shepherd  and  the  shearing  expert,  were  not  the  only 
difficulties  with  which  Dick  Holmes  had  to  contend  at 
the  moment.  For  the  past  week  Vera  had  been  suffer- 
ing from  nerves.  She  was  undoubtedly  doing  her  best 
to  control  them,  but  it  seemed  as  though  within  her 
she  carried  some  hidden  consuming  fire  of  anger, 
which  at  any  moment  might  break  forth  in  violent 
eruption. 

After  the  meal  Holmes  went  back  to  the  shed,  and 
the  little  girls  clamored  to  follow  him. 

"You  are  not  to  go,"  said  Vera. 

They  were  all  sitting  on  the  veranda  together,  Ann 
trimming  a  hat  for  Mrs.  Holmes,  who  smoked  fiercely 
and  continuously. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Biddy,  pouting. 

"Because  I  say  so.  I  won't  have  you  tearing  about 
down  there  alone  amongst  the  Maori  shearers." 

"Miss  Merrill  can  come  too." 

"Miss  Merrill  is  busy." 

"Trimming  your  old  hats!  You're  selfish— she  wants 
to  go." 

"Don't  talk  to  me  like  that,"  said  Vera  sharply. 
Then  after  a  moment  she  went  on,  her  voice  more 
under  control,  "Alice  and  Connie  Ralston  are  coming 
over  to  tea  with  you." 

"I  don't  want  them.  I  hate  them.  I  won't  play  with 
them." 

"You'll  do  as  you're  told,"  again  the  tone  was  edged 
and  harsh. 

"You  can't  make  me  nice  to  them  if  I  don't  want 
to  be." 


The  Clash  of  Temperament  67 

"I'll  be  nice  to  them,"  said  Jo,  cheerfully.  "I  like 
Alice." 

Mrs.  Holmes  continued  to  smoke  in  silence.  Biddy, 
watching  her  intently,  suddenly  said  aggressively: 

"I  am  going  down  to  the  shed." 

She  made  a  movement  as  though  to  carry  out  her 
threat,  but  in  a  second  Mrs.  Holmes  had  sprung  from 
her  seat  and  seized  her  arm.  The  child  screamed. 

"You're  hurting  me— let  me  go.  You're  cross  and 
horrid." 

"How  dare  you  talk  to  me  like  that?" 

The  fury  in  Vera  Holmes's  face  was  not  pleasant  to 
see. 

"Yes,  you  are  horrid.  You  don't  love  me,  and  you 
don't  love  Daddy  either.  It's  only  Jo  and  Gerald  you 
like." 

It  was  then  like  a  flash  that  the  eruption  came.  Vera 
Holmes's  face  was  convulsed  with  passion.  Stooping 
she  seized  a  thick  hunting  crop  lying  on  the  veranda 
and  brought  it  down  heavily  across  the  child's  small 
shoulders.  Biddy  was  screaming  now  at  the  top  of 
her  lungs. 

"Let  me  go— beast— beast— I  hate  you." 

But  again  and  again  the  heavy  crop  descended. 
Suddenly  Vera  flung  it  from  her,  and  released  the 
shrieking  child. 

"Go  up  to  the  schoolroom— Jo,  you  go  too,"  she 
said  hoarsely,  and  pushing  them  both  down  the  ve- 
randa steps,  she  sank  back  into  her  own  chair. 

Ann  had  risen.  It  had  all  happened  so  quickly  that 
she  had  been  powerless  to  interfere.  In  any  case  what 
could  she  do?  She  was  appalled  by  the  scene.  Biddy 
had  certainly  deserved  punishment,  and  probably  she 
had  not  been  so  badly  hurt,  for  her  clothes  had  helped 


68  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

break  the  force  of  the  blows;  but  the  child  was  so 
small  and  weak,  and  Vera  Holmes  so  strong,  and  the 
fury  in  her  face  so  uncontrolled,  that  Ann  felt  sick- 
ened. Biddy,  still  sobbing  violently,  rushed  up  the 
garden  path  towards  the  schoolroom;  Jo  followed 
more  slowly,  turning  her  head  occasionally  to  watch, 
as  though  fascinated,  her  mother's  face.  On  the  ve- 
randa there  was  silence.  Then  the  telephone  bell  rang 
—three  long  rings— the  signal  for  Tirau. 

"I'll  go,"  said  Vera. 

She  was  still  trembling,  and  breathing  heavily  as 
though  she  had  been  running  hard,  but  at  the  tele- 
phone her  voice  sounded  normal  once  more. 

"Yes?  Oh  . . .  you!  Wait  a  moment." 

She  laid  down  the  receiver  and  stepped  back  to 
the  veranda. 

"Just  go  up  and  see  that  the  children  are  all  right 
in  the  school-room,  will  you  Miss  Merrill?" 

Ann  needed  no  second  bidding.  She  flew  up  the 
garden  path.  In  one  corner  of  the  schoolroom  Jo 
was  bending  over  a  heap  of  misery  which  was  Biddy. 

"You  can  have  my  red  pencil,  Bid,"  she  was  saying. 
"The  one  with  the  injun-rubber  at  the  end." 

"I  don't  want  it." 

She  tried  to  force  the  red  pencil  between  the  fingers 
of  two  hands  covering  a  convulsed  and  swollen  face. 

"I  only  chewed  the  injun-rubber  a  few  times.  It 
rubs  out  quite  all  right." 

Ann  walked  over  to  the  prostrate  child  and  gathered 
her  up  in  her  arms. 

"Such  a  dusty  old  floor  to  lie  on,"  she  remarked 
cheerfully. 

Biddy  struggled  to  be  free. 


The  Clash  of  Temperament  69 

"Go  away— I  don't  want  you,"  she  sobbed.  "I  don't 
want  any  one." 

"Don't  be  a  stupid  old  Biddikins,"  said  Ann  in  as 
matter-of-fact  a  tone  as  she  could  command.  "What's 
the  sense  of  lying  on  the  floor  there  amongst  all  the 
dust  and  microbes?" 

"What's  microbes?"  asked  Jo. 

"A  microbe  is  a  funny  wriggly  little  creature— it 
turns,  and  twirls,  and  squirms." 

"Biddy's  a  microbe!"  said  Jo  delightedly. 

"I'm  not."  Biddy  gave  a  violent  kick  in  her  sister's 
direction. 

"Of  course  she  isn't,"  said  Ann. 

In  spite  of  Biddy's  struggles  she  still  held  her,  and 
sat  down  now  in  the  one  easy  chair  the  schoolroom 
possessed. 

"I'll  tell  you  a  story  about  a  very  funny  little  mi- 
crobe that  lived  in  a  teeny  weeny  hole  in  the  floor." 

Biddy's  struggles  subsided.  She  was  still  sobbing 
in  a  sort  of  hiccupping  fashion,  her  poor  little  face  all 
blotched  and  swollen,  but  she  wanted  to  hear  about 
the  microbe.  She  liked  Ann's  stories. 

With  the  child  cradled  in  her  arms,  and  Jo's  fat 
jolly  face  upturned  to  hers,  Ann  sat  and  racked  her 
brains  to  invent  humorous  and  exciting  adventures 
for  the  microbe.  But  to  tell  the  truth  this  was  not 
easy.  Her  heart  was  aching  for  the  child  she  held. 
No  doubt  Biddy  had  been  very  rude  and  very  dis- 
obedient, but  she  had  seemed  so  pitifully  small  and 
helpless  in  the  grip  of  that  infuriated  woman.  And 
Ann  knew  that  Vera  Holmes  was  not  merely  punish- 
ing and  correcting  the  child;  she  was  letting  loose 
some  flood  of  passion  within  her,  in  those  dreadful 


70  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

blows.  The  punishment  had  been  so  prodigiously  in 
excess  of  the  crime! 

How  was  one  to  try  and  comfort  the  victim  of  in- 
justice, without  appearing  to  criticize  the  chastening 
hand?  Ann  didn't  know;  but  the  microbe  in  a  top- 
hat  and  Oxford  bags  and  spats,  and  white  kid  gloves, 
continued  his  extraordinary  adventures,  until  Jo 
chortled  with  delight  and  even  Biddy's  tear-stained 
face  twisted  into  the  semblance  of  a  smile.  At  the  end 
of  the  story,  Jo,  looking  out  of  the  window,  an- 
nounced that  Alice  and  Connie  were  riding  up  to  the 
gate. 

"I  won't  be  nice  to  them,"  said  Biddy,  still  defiant. 

"Oh,  yes  you  will,"  returned  Ann,  with  more 
cheerful  conviction  than  she  felt.  "What  about  hav- 
ing a  microbe  tea-party?  Come  along  down  to  my 
room,  Biddy,  and  wash  your  face,  and  I'll  give  you 
some  chocolates  to  bring  back  to  the  schoolroom." 

"What's  a  microbe  tea-party?"  demanded  Jo. 

Again  Ann's  inventiveness  was  called  into  play. 
On  the  spur  of  the  moment  she  had  to  frame  rules 
and  regulations,  and  a  complete  manual  of  etiquette, 
for  microbes.  Later,  approaching  the  schoolroom  to 
discover  how  things  were  going,  she  realized  that 
there  were  no  hostilities  in  progress.  Harmony 
reigned,  and  the  party  seemed  to  be  in  full  swing.  But 
it  was  not  going  according  to  the  preconceived  Mer- 
rill code.  It  had  taken  a  new  and  original  turn.  Two 
chocolate  creams  were  on  one  plate,  and  two  bits  of 
dry  bread  on  another. 

"Will  you  have  Marblar-Marblar  or  Sarblar-Sar- 
blar?"  she  heard  Biddy  asking  her  guests  politely. 

"Marblar-Marblar,  please,"  said  Alice. 

The  bits  of  dry  bread  were  handed  to  the  Ralstons, 


The  Clash  of  Temperament  71 

who  obediently  ate  them  while  their  hostesses  de- 
voured the  chocolate  creams.  More  chocolates,  and 
more  pieces  of  bread  were  produced. 

"Marblar-Marblar  or  Sarblar-Sarblar?"  asked  Jo. 

"Sarblar-Sarblar,"  returned  Connie,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  chocolates. 

Again  the  dry  bread  was  proffered.  Connie  looked 
bewildered. 

"I  said  Sarblar-Sarblar,"  she  said. 

"That's  it." 

"Oh!  Is  it?" 

"Yes." 

Biddy  was  quite  gravely  eating  the  chocolate,  but 
Jo  was  choking  over  hers  in  fits  of  unholy  mirth.  For 
whether  the  Ralstons  chose  Marblar-Marblar  or  Sar- 
blar-Sarblar, they  always  got  dry  bread;  and  being  as- 
sured that  they  had  got  what  they  asked  for,  they 
ate  it. 

Ann  knew  that  the  perfect  governess  would  inter- 
rupt the  proceedings  and  insist  upon  these  imperfect 
hostesses  behaving  properly;  but  seeing  that  the  party 
appeared  to  be  progressing  quite  amicably,  she  de- 
cided that  discretion  was  the  better  part  of  govern- 
ment, and  returned  unseen  to  the  house. 


Ann,  having  given  the  little  girls  their  tea,  was 
sitting  in  her  own  room  endeavoring  to  finish  the 
hat  before  dinner,  when  Vera  Holmes  entered.  The 
storm  of  passion  earlier  in  the  afternoon  had  evidently 
had  the  effect  of  relieving  the  elder  woman's  nervous 
tension.  She  was  once  more  charming,  gracious,  and 
looking  very  handsome  in  her  vivid  evening  gown. 


72  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"Satisfactory  for  her  to  find  this  remedy  for  nerves," 
Ann  reflected  a  trifle  cynically;  but  hardly  so  pleasant 
for  the  small  child  who  had  provided  the  outlet.  Yet, 
when  Mrs.  Holmes  sat  down  beside  Ann,  praising  her 
skill,  and  thanking  her  for  what  she  had  done  in  trans- 
forming an  old  hat  into  something  which  looked  like 
a  Parisian  model,  the  girl  felt  once  more  the  spell  of 
her  employer's  fascinating  personality. 

"I'm  very  sorry  I  lost  my  temper  with  Biddy  today," 
said  Mrs.  Holmes.  "But  Biddy  and  I  both  suffer  from 
stormy  temperaments.  We  have  these  clashes  some- 
times. I  ought  to  have  more  self-control,  I  know.  You 
were  shock,ed,  weren't  you?" 

"  'Shocked'  has  a  prudish  sound  about  it.  I  was 
. . .  sorry  too." 

"For  me,  or  for  Biddy?" 

Ann  considered  this  for  a  moment. 

"Very  sorry  for  Biddy  at  first,  and  more  sorry  for 
you  afterwards." 

"You  thought  it  a  dreadful  exhibition?" 

Ann  didn't  answer,  and  Mrs.  Holmes,  who  had 
been  sitting  in  a  wicker  chair  beside  the  bed,  got  up 
and  moved  to  the  open  window. 

"It  was  a  dreadful  exhibition,"  she  said  in  a  low 
tone,  not  looking  at  Ann.  "I  know  that  without  being 
told.  But  I  want  you  to  try  and  forget  it.  This  last 
week  I've  been  nearly  off  my  head  with  nerves.  I 
haven't  slept,  and  I  feel  a  wreck.  I  hope  I  don't  look 
one." 

She  turned,  and  Ann  was  forced  to  laugh. 

"You  know  quite  well  that  you  are  looking  a  pic- 
ture," she  said. 

"That's  what  I  came  in  to  find  out,"  admitted  Mrs. 
Holmes.  "I'm  intolerably  vain— but  I  needn't  inform 


The  Clash  of  Temperament  73 

you  of  that  fact.  You're  quite  a  shrewd  enough  little 
monkey  to  have  found  me  out  already.  If  there's  a 
man  within  a  mile,  I  always  prink  and  preen,  and 
endeavor  to  look  my  best.  And  Gerald  Waring's  here 
to  dinner.  He  rang  up  to  say  he  wanted  to  see  Dick 
about  some  sheep.  Mutton  and  wool  again  tonight,  I 
suppose!" 

She  made  a  little  grimace,  then  crossed  over,  and 
kissing  Ann  lightly  on  the  cheek,  she  vanished. 

The  kiss  surprised  Ann  more  than  anything  else. 
What  was  she  to  do  with  such  a  woman? 

"Should  I  ever  really  dislike  her?"  she  wondered. 
For  she  knew  that  Vera  had  succeeded  in  disarming 
her.  Resentment  had  vanished. 

But  Mrs.  Holmes  was  not  the  only  woman  in  the 
house  who  wished  to  look  her  best  at  dinner  that 
night.  Ann  made  faces  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and 
told  herself  she  was  a  little  fool,  but  nevertheless  she 
donned  her  most  becoming  frock. 

Well,  she  might  have  saved  herself  the  trouble  she 
thought  later,  with  a  laugh  at  her  own  expense.  Be- 
yond a  casual  "How-do-you-do,"  Waring  had  not  ad- 
dressed one  single  remark  to  her.  At  dinner  Dick 
Holmes  suggested  a  game  of  bridge;  and  so,  as  soon 
as  the  children  were  safely  in  bed,  Ann  made  her  way 
out  on  to  the  front  veranda  where  the  others  were 
sitting.  But  she  was  thinking  more  of  Biddy  now  than 
of  Waring— for  Biddy  had  whispered  to  her  as  she 
tucked  her  up: 

"I  hate  Mummy,  but  I  love  you." 

"Well,  I  certainly  don't  love  any  one  who  can  talk 
like  that,"  returned  Ann  coldly,  though  perhaps  not 
quite  truthfully,  for  she  already  felt  a  great  attach- 
ment to  both  these  little  girls. 


74  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"It  doesn't  make  any  difference  what  you  feel," 
said  Biddy.  "It's  me  that  feels  it.  And  Mummy'll  hurt 
you  some  day  if  she  doesn't  like  you.  She  hurts  Daddy, 
and  she  hurts  me." 

"Now  don't  let  me  hear  any  more  of  that  non- 
sense," said  Ann  sternly.  "I  shan't  stay  here  if  you  talk 
like  that." 

"Would  you  go  right  away?" 

"Yes." 

"Back  to  England?" 

"Perhaps." 

"Well,  I  won't  say  it,  'cos  I  want  you  to  stay." 

"Biddy,  it's  only  horrible  little  girls  who  talk  about 
their  mothers  like  that." 

"All  right.  I  won't  be  horrible.  Good  night." 

Ann  left  her,  feeling  rather  appalled.  She  told  her- 
self that  children  often  said  foolish  things  of  this 
sort— "hating"  people  who  had  displeased  them— that 
the  remarks  were  forgotten  almost  as  soon  as  they 
were  uttered;  but  at  the  same  time  she  experienced  a 
sense  of  discomfort.  She  must  not  encourage  Biddy's 
affection.  It  seemed  disloyal  to  Mrs.  Holmes.  Yet 
wasn't  that  rather  hard  on  the  child?  What  an  annoy- 
ing little  complication.  Well,  never  mind!  It  would 
probably  vanish  in  a  day  or  two  at  most. 


Twilight  had  fallen,  but  it  was  not  yet  dark.  A 
constant  bleating  from  ewes  and  lambs  in  the  pad- 
docks near  the  shed  filled  the  air.  After  the  shearing 
separation,  mothers  and  their  young  were  seeking  to 
find  one  another.  They  would  probably  all  be  identi- 
fied correctly  in  a  few  hours— no  ewe  would  accept  the 


The  Clash  of  Temperament  75 

wrong  lamb!  The  crickets  were  busy  singing  their 
night  song  in  the  garden.  But  there  were  other  songs 
being  sung  down  at  the  shearers'  quarters,  where  the 
Maoris,  gathered  round  the  camp  fire,  were  enter- 
taining themselves  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  well- 
played  concertina.  Very  musical  voices  they  had, 
thought  Ann,  and  wished  she  might  go  nearer  to 
hear  the  concert  more  distinctly.  As  if  in  answer  to 
this  wish,  Waring  suddenly  remarked: 

"What  about  strolling  down  to  listen  to  the  Maoris 
before  we  start  bridge?" 

"How  energetic  you  are,"  said  Vera.  "Can't  we 
hear  them  plainly  enough  without  moving?" 

"Miss  Merrill  looks  as  though  she  wanted  to  go," 
returned  Waring. 

"I'd  love  to,"  said  Ann. 

"Dick,  you  take  Miss  Merrill  down,  and  we'll  wait 
for  you  here." 

"I  want  a  word  with  Hicky  about  the  lorry  for  my 
wool,"  said  Waring. 

"I  don't  think  you'll  find  Hicky  there,"  remarked 
Holmes.  "He's  usually  over  at  Omoana  in  the  eve- 
nings." 

"I'll  leave  a  message  with  Parone  then." 

Waring  got  up. 

"I  suppose  you  won't  be  happy  until  you've  suc- 
ceeded in  dislodging  us  all  from  our  comfortable 
chairs,"  said  Vera,  rising  lazily. 

She  made  her  way  towards  the  steps,  and  Ann  fol- 
lowed. Vera  turned. 

"Aren't  you  coming,  Dick?"  she  called,  a  faint  note 
of  irritation  in  her  voice. 

"You  three  go  on.  I'll  follow  later.  I  promised  to 
say  good  night  to  the  kids." 


76  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"You'll  only  disturb  them— come  along." 
Vera's  tone  was  imperious,  but  Holmes,  used  to 
this  note  in  her  voice,  calmly  went  on  filling  his  pipe 
without  moving.  Waring  had  reached  the  steps  lead- 
ing down  from  the  first  terrace.  Vera  was  close  behind 
him,  and  Ann  straggled  along  rather  undecidedly  in 
the  rear.  Somehow  she  knew  that  Mrs.  Holmes  didn't 
want  her.  But  could  she  turn  back  now  and  resume 
her  seat  on  the  veranda  beside  Mr.  Holmes?  That 
would  look  rather  queer  and  pointed. 
"We're  waiting  for  you,  Miss  Merrill." 
Waring's  voice  resolved  her  doubt,  and  she  moved 
forward.  The  man  had  opened  the  big  gate  at  the 
end  of  the  drive,  and  Mrs.  Holmes  had  already  passed 
through.  As  Ann  came  close  beside  him,  Waring 
whispered:  "I  engineered  this  to  get  a  chance  to  speak 
to  you  alone.  I'll  join  you  later." 

Ann  walked  on.  She  had  made  no  reply,  and  she 
was  furiously  annoyed  with  herself  because  that 
urgent  whisper  had  had  the  effect  of  quickening  the 
beat  of  her  heart.  The  impertinence  of  the  man!  To 
ignore  her  publicly,  and  then  to  imagine  that  she 
would  jump  at  the  chance  of  this  clandestine  flirta- 
tion! She  wouldn't!  She  wouldn't!  But  what  was  it  he 
wanted  to  say  to  her?  Ann  walked  on  a  prey  to  varied 
feelings.  She  knew  quite  well  that  she  didn't  care  for 
Waring— not  in  the  sense  of  affection  and  trust— but 
she  did  find  his  presence  and  this  covert  love-making 
exciting.  And  she  hated  herself  for  finding  it  so. 

The  attraction  was  entirely  physical,  but  it  was 
potent.  What  must  she  do?  Ann  found  no  answer  to 
her  questions;  so  she  walked  on  quietly  beside  Mrs. 
Holmes  until  they  came  to  the  cottage,  beyond  which 


The  Clash  of  Temperament  77 

the  shearers  had  pitched  their  tent.  The  cottage  was 
the  original  station  homestead,  and  was  occupied  now 
by  the  Pratt  family,  Marsh,  Macdonald  (the  other 
station  hand),  and  Dan  the  Maori.  A  creeper-covered 
veranda  faced  a  small  neglected  garden  full  of  strag- 
gling shrubs  and  rose-bushes,  and  at  the  back  an  old 
orchard  and  a  patch  of  bush  bordered  the  river  bank. 
Ann  halted  at  the  gate  leading  into  the  cottage.  It  was 
not  so  much  a  desire  to  look  at  the  place,  seen  dimly 
in  the  twilight,  as  to  escape  from  Mrs.  Holmes  and 
Waring.  They  strolled  on  towards  the  camp  fire,  and 
she  remained  gazing  across  the  over-grown  flower 
beds  towards  the  little  old  house.  She  tried  to  picture 
Dick  Holmes  with  his  two  brothers,  and  his  sister 
playing  as  children  in  this  small  garden,  thirty  years 
ago.  Nice  children  they  must  have  been,  she  decided, 
if  they  were  anything  like  Holmes  himself.  But  she 
would  not  meet  them  now,  for  the  sister  had  long  ago 
married  and  gone  to  live  in  England,  and  the  two 
brothers  lay  sleeping  at  Gallipoli. 

A  voice  from  the  other  side  of  the  hedge  made  her 
start. 

"Come  down  to  fill  up  the  night-pen  in  the  shed?" 
asked  Rodney  Marsh,  smiling  at  her. 

He  wore  no  hat  and  his  dark  hair  was  wet  and 
smoothed  back  from  his  sun-tanned  face.  The  loose 
white  shirt,  open  at  the  neck,  showed  the  fine  column 
of  his  throat,  and  across  his  shoulders  dangled  a  col- 
ored towel. 

"You've  been  in  the  river,"  said  Ann. 

He  nodded. 

"We've  got  a  swimming  pool  down  at  the  back  of 
the  house  there." 


78  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"Lucky  you." 

"Do  you  like  swimming?" 

"Rather!" 

"You  should  go  over  to  the  beach  then." 

"Mrs.  Holmes  thinks  it's  a  little  too  early  for  the 
children  to  bathe  yet  awhile.  But  she's  promised  to 
let  me  take  them  next  week  if  it's  warm  enough." 

He  opened  the  gate,  and  came  out  to  stand  beside 
her. 

"Well,"  said  Ann.  "What's  the  job  I'm  to  help 
with?  Filling  the  night-pen  or  something.  I  mean  to 
learn  this  sheep-farming  business,  you  know." 

He  laughed. 

"Have  you  got  any  idea  what  a  night-pen  is?" 

"Not  the  foggiest." 

"It's  inside  the  shed.  The  sheep  are  kept  in  there 
ready  for  the  morning's  shearing.  If  it  rains,  we've 
still  got  a  shed  full  to  start  on." 

"Can't  you  shear  them  wet?" 

He  laughed  again. 

"I  suppose  you'll  put  damp  wool  in  the  press  when 
you  start  sheep-farming." 

"Not  if  it's  wrong.  I'll  have  learnt  how  to  do  the 
right  thing  by  that  time.  A  good-natured  head-shep- 
herd will  have  taught  me." 

"He'll  be  a  chap  with  a  lot  of  time  on  his  hands, 
won't  he?" 

"Show  me  the  night-pen." 

"Sheep-farmers  don't  go  into  the  shed  in  white 
silk  dresses,"  said  Marsh. 

"It's  crepe-de-Chine  and  georgette,"  she  corrected 
him. 

"How  should  I  know  what  it  is?" 


The  Clash  of  Temperament  79 

"And  how  should  I  know  about  night-pens  and 
damp  wool  and  sheep?" 

Marsh  was  looking  down  at  her,  the  laughter  in  his 
eyes  answering  the  mischief  in  her  own. 

"What  are  you  doing  down  here  alone,  anyway?" 

"I'm  not  alone.  I  came  with  Mrs.  Holmes  and  Mr. 
Waring." 

"Oh,  Waring!"  His  tone  of  easy  contempt  made 
Ann  look  up  at  him  sharply. 

"You  don't  like  Mr.  Waring?" 

He  shrugged. 

"He's  not  my  boss.  We're  in  the  polo  team  together. 
Beyond  that  I  don't  bother  my  head  about  him,  one 
way  or  the  other." 

A  horseman  passed  them,  coming  from  the  Maoris' 
camp.  He  slowed  up  a  little,  peering  at  the  two  fig- 
ures in  the  half-light. 

"Isn't  that  Hicky?" 

"Yes."  His  face  had  darkened. 

"And  you  don't  like  Hicky,  either?" 

"No,"  he  answered  shortly. 

The  big  half-caste  had  ridden  on  a  little  way.  Now 
he  turned  and  came  back.  Close  beside  the  gate  he 
dismounted. 

"Good  evening,"  he  said  to  Ann,  raising  his  hat. 

Ann  murmured,  "Good  evening,"  in  reply,  but  she 
did  not  at  all  appreciate  the  familiar  leer  with  which 
he  eyed  her. 

Turning  to  Marsh  he  said  something  in  Maori,  and 
Marsh,  without  one  moment's  hesitation,  hit  him 
under  the  jaw,  and  knocked  him  down.  His  horse 
pulled  back,  snorting,  and  then  galloped  off  with 
trailing  bridle  across  the  paddock.  In  a  second  Hicky 
was  on  his  feet,  and  the  battle  was  joined. 


80  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

Ann  had  never  seen  two  men  fight  before.  Had 
she  been  a  boxing  expert  she  would  have  realized  that 
here  she  had  something  worth  watching.  The  two 
men  were  equally  matched,  and  they  were  both 
skilled  performers,  but  the  science  of  the  exhibition 
was  lost  on  Ann;  she  was  merely  filled  with  horror 
and  dismay.  Not  so  the  Maori  shearers.  They  came 
running  from  the  camp  fire  to  form  a  delighted  ring 
about  the  combatants— cheering  on  first  one,  and 
then  the  other!  Mrs.  Holmes  and  Waring  were  no- 
where to  be  seen.  Ann,  nearly  as  white  as  her  white 
frock,  hemmed  in  by  excited  Maori  men  and  women, 
stood  an  unwilling  spectator  of  this— to  her— appalling 
and  uncivilized  conflict. 

She  had  enough  sense  to  realize,  in  spite  of  her  in- 
experience in  such  matters,  that  this  was  no  ordinary 
sparring  match.  It  was  a  battle  which  would  only  end 
with  the  disablement  of  one  or  other  of  the  com- 
batants. Already  they  looked  horrible,  their  hands 
and  faces  streaked  with  blood.  This  fight  must  be 
stopped  before  murder  was  committed!  Ann  stopped 
it.  She  simply  sprang  in  between  the  two  men  during 
one  second  in  which  they  were  a  pace  apart,  and  clung 
to  Rodney's  hands.  Hicky— utterly  taken  aback  at 
this  obstruction— endeavored  to  pull  himself  up  in 
a  rush  forward,  missed  his  footing  and  fell.  In  the 
moment's  respite,  Ann  had  pushed  the  bewildered 
Rodney  through  the  gate,  and  closed  it.  She  stood  out- 
side and  faced  Hicky,  who  was  scrambling  to  his  feet. 

"Take  yourself  off  this  instant,"  she  said;  and  then 
turned  to  Marsh  who  was  pulling  at  the  gate.  "Don't 
you  dare  to  move,"  she  said  fiercely. 

She  wheeled  again  towards  Hicky. 


The  Clash  of  Temperament  81 

"Go  after  your  horse  at  once!  At  once,  do  you  hear 
me?"  she  commanded. 

Then  to  the  Maoris: 

"Back  to  your  camp,  all  of  you.  Here's  the  boss 
coming  now  across  the  paddock.  He'll  fetch  the  po- 
lice! Quick!  Before  there's  trouble." 

They  obeyed  her.  Hicky  obeyed  her.  Why,  she 
never  stopped  to  think.  Perhaps  the  amazing  spectacle 
of  this  slip  of  a  girl  in  her  white  evening  frock  stand- 
ing unafraid,  and  passionately  angry,  before  them  all 
was  a  trifle  unnerving.  The  crowd  dispersed,  and  she 
was  left  alone  with  Rodney  Marsh. 

"Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself?"  she  asked  indig- 
nantly. "Didn't  you  say  things  hadn't  been  too  easy 
for  Mr.  Holmes  lately?  And  now  you  deliberately 
make  more  trouble  for  him." 

Marsh's  attack  had  been  anything  but  deliberate, 
but  she  didn't  stop  to  think  of  that,  she  was  too  in- 
censed. 

"Only  this  morning  he  was  saying  he  hoped  you 
wouldn't  be  fool  enough  to  let  your  private  quarrels 
interfere  with  his  work  at  shearing  time,  and  now 
you've  done  it." 

"You  don't  know  what  that . . .  that  brute  said." 

Marsh  was  mopping  his  battered  face  with  a  red- 
stained  handkerchief.  Ann  suddenly  had  a  vision  of 
a  small  boy  being  lectured  by  a  school  ma'am,  and 
she  would  have  been  moved  to  laughter  if  she  hadn't 
felt  so  thoroughly  infuriated. 

"A  silly  boy!  That's  all  you  are!"  she  said. 

"Look  here,"  he  began  fiercely,  and  then  his  eyes 
fell  on  the  blood-stains  on  her  frock.  "Your  dress  is 
ruined,"  he  ended  lamely. 


82  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"Of  course  it  is.  And  it's  the  only  really  nice  eve- 
ning frock  I've  got." 

"I'll  buy  you  another." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  wouldn't  accept 
one  from  you." 

He  glared  at  her  darkly. 

"Think  yourself  a  cut  above  me,  I  suppose." 

"I  certainly  do  at  the  moment.  If  you'd  cared  two 
pins  for  Mr.  Holmes,  you'd  have  thought  of  him  first, 
and  not  of  your  own  silly  pride." 

"It  wasn't  pride.  It  was  what  he  said  about ..." 
He  stopped  suddenly. 

Ann,  with  a  flash  of  intuition,  knew  that  Hicky's  re- 
mark had  been  some  reference  to  herself,  but  that  this 
young  man  was  not  going  to  give  her  the  satisfaction 
of  knowing  why  the  battle  had  been  fought. 

Looked  at  from  this  angle,  the  affair  assumed  a 
slightly  different  aspect.  Ann's  anger  against  him 
cooled. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  she  asked. 

"Hurt?"  he  echoed  roughly.  "It'd  take  more  than 
that  to  hurt  me.  And  let  me  tell  you  you've  done  a 
damn  silly  thing.  We  should  have  fought  it  out  to 
a  finish." 

"What  sort  of  a  finish?"  she  asked  scornfully.  "Un- 
til one  of  you  had  killed  the  other?" 

"Better  that  than  stopping  in  the  middle  of  a 
fight." 

"Listen  to  me,"  she  said.  "If  you  want  to  kill  each 
other,  at  least  have  the  decency  to  wait  until  the  shear- 
ing's finished.  You  say  Mr.  Holmes  is  a  white  man. 
Well,  behave  like  a  white  man  yourself.  Promise  me 
you'll  wait  to  settle  your  difference  with  Hicky  until 
after  the  shearing  is  finished,  will  you?" 


The  Clash  of  Temperament  83 

In  her  earnestness  she  placed  her  hand  on  his  wrist. 
Marsh  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  down  at  it.  In  the 
fading  light  it  might  have  been  a  little  pale  leaf 
blown  by  the  wind  against  the  hard,  brown  forearm. 

"All  right,"  he  said  at  last,  in  rather  a  queer  tone. 
"I  promise." 

"What's  been  the  trouble,  Rodney?" 

Holmes  was  at  the  gate,  and  from  the  other  direc- 
tion Mrs.  Holmes  and  Waring  were  approaching. 
Ann  slipped  away  to  join  them,  while  "the  boss"  in- 
terviewed his  head-shepherd.  But  she  gave  no  oppor- 
tunity to  Gerald  Waring  for  any  further  attempt  at 
flirtation.  She  reached  her  room,  and  was  able  to 
change  her  frock  without  its  deplorable  condition 
having  been  noticed.  And  pinned  on  her  dressing- 
table  she  found  a  very  badly  scrawled  note. 

"DEAR  Miss  MERIL,"  she  read: 

"I  have  draun  2  hearts,  i  is  yours,  and  i  is  mine, 
on  mine  is  repintence  and  on  yours  is  forgiveness, 
that  is  to  show  I  repint.  Dad  has  tole  me  how  to 
spell  the  long  words,  but  I  did  not  tell  him  what 
fore,  plese  forgive  your  loving  friend  Biddy. 

"P.S.— I  do  not  feel  to  well  to-night  praps  it  is  to 
many  chocolates  I  wish  I  had  let  Connie  and  Alice 
eat  some  if  I  am  sick  in  the  night  I  hop  I  wone 
disturb  you." 

Ann  laughed  as  she  read  it,  but  she  was,  never- 
theless, very  touched.  The  little  girls  were  beginning 
to  mean  a  great  deal  in  her  life,  and  somehow  the 
feeling  invoked  by  that  funny  scrawl,  and  the  draw- 
ing of  the  two  lop-sided  hearts,  had  the  effect  for  the 


84  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

moment  at  least  of  diminishing  Waring's  influence 
over  her.  The  children  trusted  her.  She  wanted  to 
be  worth  trusting. 

She  played  bridge  quite  contentedly  for  the  two 
hours  before  going  to  bed. 


IV 

'Daisy' 


i. 

ALTHOUGH  Rodney  Marsh  apparently  kept  his  prom- 
ise with  regard  to  Hicky,  and  Tirau  "cut  out"  (or,  in 
other  words,  finished  the  shearing)  without  a  hitch, 
trouble  was  in  store  for  Dick  Holmes.  Almost  within 
an  hour  after  they  had  "cut  out"  at  the  woolshed,  the 
weather  changed.  A  bitterly  cold  gale  from  the  south 
came  up  with  torrents  of  rain.  For  five  days  it  con- 
tinued. Five  disastrous  days  as  far  as  the  newly-shorn 
sheep  were  concerned. 

Holmes,  Marsh,  Macdonald  (the  second  shepherd), 
Pratt,  and  Dan,  the  Maori  cow-boy,  were  working 
from  dawn  till  dark;  but  though  through  their  efforts 
they  were  able  to  effect  some  saving  of  stock,  the  loss 
in  sheep  and  lambs  was  very  heavy.  The  roads  for 
a  short  period  were  almost  impassable.  One  lorry  tak- 
ing wool  bales  down  the  coast  got  hopelessly  bogged 
and  Holmes  was  unable  to  get  the  rest  of  the  clip  to 
Wairiri  in  time  for  the  November  wool  sales. 

Though  Biddy— in  spite  of  Ann's  efforts  to  suppress 
her— had  talked  one  morning  of  "the  Bank"  not  being 
nice  to  Daddy  about  "the  mortgage,"  Ann  thought 
Holmes's  harassed  appearance  might  possibly  be  due 
more  to  the  strain  of  hard  work  than  to  financial 
worry;  for  he  gave  no  sign  of  any  monetary  embar- 

85 


86  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

rassment,  and  Ann  had  no  grounds— beyond  the  hint 
let  fall  by  Rodney  Marsh  during  the  shearing— for  be- 
lieving that  all  was  not  well  with  him  and  with  the 
station. 

During  these  days  of  driving  rain  Ann  and  the 
little  girls  had  to  run  up  to  the  school-room  sheltered 
under  mackintoshes  and  umbrellas;  and  they  sat  there 
all  the  morning  with  a  blazing  fire  of  logs  roaring  in 
the  open  fireplace.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  thought 
of  the  poor  dying  stock,  and  the  worry  and  monetary 
loss  for  Mr.  Holmes,  Ann  would  have  thoroughly  en- 
joyed this  tempestuous  week.  They  were  so  cozy  up 
there  in  the  school-room  during  the  mornings— she 
and  the  little  girls  quite  happy  together— and  in  the 
afternoons,  clad  in  oilskins  and  old  hats,  they  rode 
out  in  the  drenching  rain  either  across  the  soaked 
paddocks  to  the  beach,  where  huge  breakers  came 
thundering  in  upon  the  sand,  or  along  the  muddy 
roads  to  Omoana  for  the  mail. 

Gerald  Waring  rode  over,  and  spent  one  afternoon 
and  evening  at  Tirau.  But  there  wasn't  much  chance 
of  bridge,  for  Holmes  was  too  exhausted  to  remain  up 
late,  and  Ann  escaped  early  with  a  book  to  her  room. 
Mrs.  Holmes  was  no  longer  suffering  from  nerves, 
and  no  one  could  have  been  sweeter  or  more  charm- 
ing than  she  was  now  to  all  the  household.  Ann  had 
succeeded  in  eluding  Waring  during  his  visit;  but  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  incensed  thereby  did  not  de- 
press her.  On  the  contrary,  reprehensible  though  she 
knew  the  feeling  to  be,  she  found  the  situation  excit- 
ing, and  not  unpleasant.  At  least  he  should  learn  that 
every  woman  he  condescended  to  notice  didn't  re- 
spond with  alacrity  to  his  advances.  But  at  the  same 


"Daisy"  87 

time  Ann's  vanity  was  flattered  by  his  badly  con- 
cealed annoyance. 

The  gale  blew  itself  out,  and  soon  afterwards  spring 
was  definitely  left  behind  and  summer  came  with  a 
rush.  The  ordinary  routine  of  station  life  was  re- 
sumed, polo  practice  re-commenced,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  the  bad  luck  following  upon  the  shearing  was 
forgotten. 

2. 

Ann  and  the  little  girls  were  picnicking  on  the 
beach.  They  had  started  off  directly  after  lunch,  Jo 
riding  on  a  sheepskin  strapped  on  to  her  pony's  back, 
and  Ann  mounted  on  the  well-behaved  station  hack 
Holmes  had  allotted  to  her.  She  was  not  yet  secure 
enough   to  look   after  anything  beyond  herself,  so 
Biddy  carried  the  billy  and  cakes  for  tea  in  a  sack— a 
pikau  the  Maoris  called  it— slung  across  the  front  of 
her  saddle.  They  tethered  the  horses  in  the  shade  of 
some  karaka  trees,  undressed  in  the  shelter  of  a  little 
patch  of  bush  growing  beside  the  creek,  and  then 
dashed  across  the  heavy  log-strewn  sand  to  the  foam- 
ing margin  of  the  sea.  It  was  a  perfect  afternoon.  Hot 
sunshine,  blue  sky  and  sea,  white  tumbling  waves,  and 
gulls  wheeling  and  crying  above  the  headlands,  and 
the  wet  firm  sand  near  the  water's  edge.  Glorious  just 
to  be  alive  on  a  day  like  this!  The  surf  was  not  too 
heavy;  only  sufficient  to  buffet  one  a  little.  Ann,  swim- 
ming out  further  than  the  children  dared  to  go,  could 
keep  an  eye  on  them,  and  was  as  happy  and  as  carefree 
as  they.  Later,  dressed  and  pleasantly  tired,  they  boiled 
the  billy  and  had  tea.  Then  the  little  girls,  barefooted, 
raced  off  to  play  on  the  beach,  and  Ann  sat  in  the 
shade,  and  got  out  the  book  which  she  had  brought 


88  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

with  her.  She  always  provided  herself  with  books  on 
these  excursions,  though  she  did  not  always  open 
them.  Sometimes  she  played  with  the  children— enjoy- 
ing their  games  almost  as  much  as  they  did— or  lay 
idly  dreaming,  looking  up  at  the  blue  sky,  and  listen- 
ing to  the  sound  of  the  surf,  and  the  gulls,  and  the 
locusts  rasping  in  the  hot  sunshine  of  the  hillside. 
Her  thoughts  traveled  back  to  England.  A  lovely  land, 
but  not  more  beautiful  than  the  wild  freedom  of  this 
new  country;  and  she  felt  a  sense  of  pity  for  the  mil- 
lions now  in  the  gray  cities  there,  treading  grimy 
pavements   through   November   fogs.    Mrs.    Holmes 
might  sigh  for  London  shops.  Ann  felt  she  didn't 
care  if  she  never  saw  a  shop  window  again!  Sunshine, 
blue  seas  and  skies— silver  beaches— hills  that  were 
blue  and  mauve  and  purple  in  the  distance— deep 
green  of  the  fern-filled  bush— this  was  God's  shop  win- 
dow! She  could  be  happy  here  for  the  rest  of  her  life. 

The  sound  of  a  horse  moving  through  the  dried 
brushwood  near  at  hand  made  her  look  up,  and  she 
saw  Rodney  Marsh  riding  towards  her.  She  hailed 
him  cheerfully. 

"Hallo.  Where  are  you  off  to?" 

"Just  been  round  looking  at  some  of  the  fences," 
he  answered. 

"Have  a  cup  of  tea?" 

"I  don't  mind  if  I  do,"  he  answered. 

This  was  a  form  of  reply  she'd  grown  accustomed 
to  lately.  It  always  amused  her  mildly.  The  obliga- 
tion of  receiving  was  thus  in  some  subtle  fashion 
transmuted  into  a  condescension  of  acceptance. 

"I'd  rather  make  you  some  fresh.  It's  rather  stewed 
in  the  billy." 

"I  like  it  stewed— so  long  as  it's  hot." 


"Daisy"  89 

He  dismounted,  threw  his  bridle  reins  across  a 
stump,  and  came  towards  her.  Ann  rose  to  get  the 
tea  from  the  billy,  steaming  over  the  embers  of  the 
camp  fire. 

He  threw  himself  down  on  the  fern  near  the  spot 
where  she  had  been  sitting,  and  Ann  brought  him  the 
tea.  Again  she  was  a  little  amused  at  his  calm  accept- 
ance of  her  services,  and  at  her  own  meekness  in  prof- 
fering it.  "He's  a  working-man  and  I'm  what  the 
world  would  call  a  lady,"  she  thought.  "And  yet  here 
I  am  running  about  waiting  on  him."  Well,  what  did 
it  matter?  She  liked  him— was  quite  pleased  to  have 
him  to  talk  to.  Why  not  be  happy  and  natural,  instead 
of  standing  on  her  dignity?  So  having  supplied  him 
with  food,  she  sat  beside  him.  One  of  his  eyes  was  still 
a  trifle  darkened  from  the  fight,  but  that  didn't  de- 
tract from  his  good  looks.  Why  weren't  all  human 
beings  like  this?  Beautiful,  with  the  beauty  of  perfect 
form  and  physical  fitness.  It  was  a  sheer  joy  just  to 
look  at  him.  And  in  her  mind  she  began  to  picture 
the  splendid  Juno-like  woman  he  ought  to  marry  and 
the  beautiful  strong-limbed  children  they  would 
have! 

Over  the  edge  of  the  enamel  cup  his  eyes  met  hers 
fixed  upon  him. 

"Well?"  he  said.  "What  now?" 

She  laughed.  "I  was  just  wondering  ..." 

"Wondering  what?" 

"Speculating  rather  impertinently  about  your  fu- 
ture." 

"What  about  my  future?  Am  I  going  to  win  the 
steeplechase  at  the  Omoana  races  next  month?" 

"I  didn't  know  there  were  to  be  any  races.  No,  it 
was  something  more  important  than  that." 


go  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"It  must  have  been  darned  important  then.  What 
was  it?" 

"I  was  wondering  what  sort  of  girl  you'd  eventually 
marry.  She  should  be  big  and  strong  and  handsome— 
a  sort  of  young  Diana." 

"Marry!"  he  exclaimed  contemptuously.  "Do  you 
think  I'd  be  fool  enough  ever  to  get  married?" 

"I  don't  know  yet  how  great  a  fool  you  can  be.  But 
marriage  isn't  foolish— lots  of  wise  people  in  the  world 
have  married." 

"That's  all  you  women  ever  think  about— love  and 
marriage.  Rot!" 

"Other  people— men— have  thought  love  of  some 
importance,  you  know.  Here's  one  who  believed  it  to 
be  worth  writing  poems  about."  She  picked  up  one 
of  the  books.  "If  you  could  ever  express  in  words 
anything  a  hundredth  part  as  beautiful  as  some  of 
these  verses,  I'd  be  proud  to  feel  I'd  known  you." 

"Huh!  A  poet!  A  poet  isn't  a  man." 

"You're  very  self -satisfied  and  very  ignorant,  you 
know,"  said  Ann,  eyeing  him  dispassionately.  "On 
the  whole  I'm  a  trifle  sorry  for  that  nice,  big,  hand- 
some girl  you're  going  to  marry  some  day." 

"Don't  waste  your  pity,"  he  returned,  unmoved. 
"As  the  little  boy  said  about  the  apple-core—there 
ain't  going  to  be  no  girl!" 

Ann  suddenly  dropped  her  bantering  tone. 

"What's  your  objection  to  marriage?"  she  asked. 

"Marriage  is  right  enough  for  women." 

"But  not  for  men?" 

"What  does  a  man  gain  by  tying  himself  up  for 
good  and  all  to  one  woman?" 

"He  gains  companionship." 


"Daisy"  91 

"I  can  get  that  without  marriage.  There  are  plenty 
of  women  in  the  world." 

Ann  shot  a  sidelong  glance  at  him.  She  had  been 
talking  to  him— teasing  him— as  though  he  were  an 
inexperienced  boy.  Suddenly  she  realized  he  was  more 
than  that.  He  was  a  man,  living  the  ordinary  life  of 
most  men.  There  were  always  Mrs.  Bentleys  to  be 
found  by  such  as  he. 

"Why  should  a  man  deliberately  walk  into  a  cage?" 
he  went  on.  "What  does  he  get  out  of  it?  The  joy 
of  providing  for  a  pack  of  kids,  and  for  a  woman  who 
nags  at  him  if  he  doesn't  always  behave  like  a  Sunday 
school  teacher.  I  choose  to  be  free  to  live  my  own 
life." 

"Not  like  a  Sunday  school  teacher,"  commented 
Ann,  drily. 

"Not  like  a  milk-and-water  poet,  anyhow." 

"What  do  you  know  about  poets?" 

"Quite  as  much  as  I  want  to  know." 

"Which  is— just  nothing." 

He  laughed  good  naturedly. 

"And  you  know  a  lot,  I  suppose." 

"Not  much,  but  considerably  more  than  you  do,  I 
should  say." 

"Well,  I  should  like  to  make  a  bet  with  you  that 
this  chap"— he  picked  up  the  book  she  had  laid  down 
—"who  writes  so  beautifully  about  love,  didn't  know 
the  first  thing  about  men— real  men— and  how  they 
live.  He'd  probably  never  tasted  anything  much 
stronger  than  lemonade." 

"Is  that  a  test  of  manhood?" 

"I  wouldn't  give  much  for  a  man  who'd  never  been 
drunk." 


92  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"And  so  you're  presuming  that  'this  chap,'  as  you 
call  him,  was  one  of  the  lemonade  brigade." 
"I'll  bet  he  was." 

"You've  made  rather  a  bad  shot  this  time.  The  man 
who  wrote  these  poems  happens  to  have  died  from 
the  effects  of  what  you'd  call  manliness." 

"Drink?" 

She  nodded. 

"He  died  when  he  was  only  forty-seven  from  tu- 
berculosis—but the  disease  was  brought  on  by  dissipa- 
tion." 

"Is  that  true?" 

"Quite  true." 

"And  he  wrote  beautiful  things?" 

"Very  beautiful  things— but  he  lived  and  died  in 
poverty  and  squalor— a  hopeless  drunkard." 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "You've  scored.  Read  me 
something  he  wrote,  and  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think  of 
it." 

"That'll  be  worth  hearing,  won't  it?"  she  observed 
sarcastically.  But  her  sarcasm  left  him  unscathed. 

"You've  got  to  prove  to  me  he  was  a  poet." 

"I've  proved  he  was  a  man  by  saying  he  was  a 
drunkard?" 

"Well,  I'd  rather  listen  to  a  man  who'd  lived  hard, 
than  to  a  mother's  darling.  There— read  that!" 

He  opened  the  book  at  random,  and  pointed  to  the 
head  of  the  page. 

"You  have  a  very  commanding  way  with  you, 
haven't  you?"  she  asked,  again  with  the  little  touch 
of  dryness  in  her  voice. 

"Go  on,"  he  answered. 

And  so  Ann,  with  a  little  smile,  "went  on." 


"Daisy"  93 

"It's  called  'Daisy'— this  poem,"  she  said. 

"Where  the  thistle  lifts  a  purple  crown 

Six  feet  out  of  the  turf, 
And  the  harebell  shakes  on  the  windy  hill— 
O  the  breath  of  the  distant  surf!" 

She  stopped,  and  looked  down  at  him.  He  was 
stretched  out  beside  her  on  the  fern,  his  old  hat  half 
tilted  down  on  his  face,  his  clear  brown  eyes  gazing 
out  over  the  beach,  white  in  the  hot  sun— over  the 
tumbling  waves,  to  the  empty  blue  plain  of  the  sea. 

"That's  not  bad,"  he  admitted.  "Go  on.  Let's  hear 
what  it's  all  about." 

Ann  went  on.  She  read  well,  and  the  beauty  of 
what  she  read  was  very  real  to  her: 

"A  berry  red,  a  guileless  look, 

A  still  word— strings  of  sand! 
And  yet  they  made  my  wild,  wild  heart 
Fly  down  to  her  little  hand." 

There  was  a  movement  beside  her,  and  she  stopped 
again.  He  was  looking  up  at  her  with  a  little  frown. 
Something  strange  and  intent  was  in  his  eyes.  Then 
he  turned  towards  the  sea  again. 

"Is  that  enough?" 

"No,  go  on  to  the  end." 

Ann  read  on  until  she  finished  the  poem,  and  then 
she  closed  the  book. 

"Well,"  she  asked  mockingly,  "do  you  pass  him  as 
a  poet  as  well  as  a  man?" 

"You've  told  me  my  opinion  isn't  worth  anything," 
he  answered;  "but  that  stuff  isn't  too  bad." 

Ann  laughed,  and  he  got  up. 


94  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"Well,  thanks  for  the  tea,  and  the  lecture  on 
poetry." 

"And  marriage,"  she  answered.  "I'll  look  forward 
to  meeting  Mrs.  Rodney  Marsh  some  day." 

"You'll  be  looking  forward  a  mighty  long  time 
then"  replied  Marsh  grimly.  "Good-by." 

He  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  off.  Ann  called  to 
the  little  girls,  and  they  began  packing  up  the  tea- 
things.  But  when  they  reached  home,  and  she  was 
changing  for  dinner,  she  found  that  her  old  paper- 
covered  copy  of  Thompson's  poems  was  missing.  She 
must  have  forgotten  to  put  it  in  her  pocket  when 
leaving  the  beach. 

Well,  no  one  ever  visited  the  beach  except  them- 
selves, and  they  were  going  down  to  bathe  again  on 
the  following  day.  She  would  find  it  then.  Yet,  though 
she  and  the  children  searched  diligently  for  the  book 
on  their  next  picnic,  it  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 
"I  must  have  lost  it  riding  home,"  Ann  thought  re- 
gretfully, and  grieved  for  her  loss.  She  knew  it  would 
probably  be  impossible  to  replace  the  book  in  Wairiri. 
She  had  already  discovered  that  new  countries  are  not 
very  greatly  preoccupied  with  poets. 


V 

A  Race,  a  Dance,  a  Fight 


i. 

ANN  had  not  expected  to  go  to  the  Omoana  races;  for 
although  Mrs.  Ralston  had  invited  Biddy  and  Jo  to 
spend  race  day  with  Connie  and  Alice,  and  Ann  was 
consequently  off  duty,  she  did  not  imagine  that  the 
governess  would  form  one  of  the  party  setting  out 
from  Tirau  to  the  racecourse.  She  was  not  quite  sure 
whether  she  had  to  thank  Vera,  or  Dick  Holmes,  for 
the  day's  outing.  Waring  had  stayed  at  Tirau  the 
preceding  night,  but  he  certainly  would  not  have  be- 
stirred himself  openly  on  her  account.  Whatever  in- 
terest he  took  in  her  was  carefully  concealed.  Ann 
was  a  little  in  the  dark  as  to  the  reason  for  this;  but 
she  shrewdly  suspected  that  Mrs.  Holmes,  who  ex- 
pected the  undivided  allegiance  of  any  man  she  fa- 
vored with  her  friendship,  would  have  resented  atten- 
tion being  shown  to  the  governess,  and  that  Waring 
was  clever  enough  to  avoid  any  chance  of  arousing 
Vera's  displeasure.  But  Ann  did  not  trouble  herself 
to  ask  whom  she  had  to  thank  for  the  invitation.  She 
took  what  the  gods  were  pleased  to  send  her,  and  was 
thankful.  She  had  never  been  to  a  race  meeting  in 
her  life,  and  now,  dressed  in  her  prettiest  summer 
frock,  as  she  drove  off  from  the  homestead  with  Dick 
Holmes,  she  was  as  happy  and  excited,  as  any  healthy, 

95 


96  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

pretty  young  creature  might  be,  at  the  prospect  of  a 
jolly  day. 

Vera  had,  as  she  put  it,  taken  pity  on  Gerald's  lone- 
liness, and  was  driving  in  his  car  with  him. 

"You  ought  to  feel  very  grateful,"  she  had  remarked 
lazily  at  breakfast.  "If  I  didn't  come  with  you,  you'd 
have  to  get  out  and  open  every  gate— there  are  five 
of  them— on  the  way  to  the  course." 

"I  don't  believe  Miss  Merrill  would  mind  opening 
the  gates,  would  you,  Miss  Merrill?"  asked  Waring 
casually. 

"She'll  have  to  open  them  for  Dick,"  answered 
Vera.  "There'd  be  quite  a  scandal  in  the  neighbor- 
hood if  I  allowed  her  to  drive  alone  with  you.  I 
think  it's  less  likely  to  occasion  gossip  if  you  take  an 
old  married  woman  in  your  car." 

And  so  it  was  settled,  and  Ann  sat  in  the  front  seat 
beside  Dick  Holmes,  bumping  along  the  somewhat 
uneven  road  in  the  hot  sunshine.  She  told  him  that 
she  had  never  been  to  a  race  meeting  in  her  life,  and 
he  did  his  best  to  explain  the  working  of  the  totali- 
sator  to  her. 

"Omoana  only  has  one  meeting  a  year,  so  they  get 
in  a  little  bit  of  everything.  The  course  is  under  water 
in  the  winter,  and  the  going  isn't  too  hard  for  the 
steeplechase  now,  though  it's  really  the  flat  racing 
season." 

"It's  the  steeplechase  Rodney  Marsh  is  riding  in, 
isn't  it?" 

"Yes.  Biddy  asked  me  to  put  a  shilling  on  Nigger 
for  her,"  he  said.  "And  Jo  brought  me  fourpence  out 
of  her  money-box.  I  told  them  they  ought  both  to  be 
well  spanked." 

"And  did  you  spank  them?" 


A  Race,  a  Dance,,  a  Fight  97 

He  smiled,  and  for  answer  pulled  out  of  his  pocket 
a  shilling  and  four  coppers. 

"I  told  them  that  they  should  have  their  first  les- 
son in  gambling.  That  I  should  take  their  money  and 
they  would  never  see  it  again." 

"But  suppose  Nigger  wins?" 

He  laughed. 

"There's  about  as  much  likelihood  of  that  as  there 
is  of  my  old  car  winning  a  speed  trial." 

"But  Rodney  Marsh  thinks  he's  got  a  chance.  He 
told  me  so  the  other  day." 

"Poor  old  Rod.  He  loves  that  horse  more  than 
anything  in  the  world,  I  think,  and  he's  so  proud  of 
him  that  he'd  probably  enter  him  for  the  Grand 
National  if  he  could  afford  it." 

"But  Nigger  has  won  prizes,  hasn't  he?" 

"Only  for  jumping.  He's  not  a  young  horse.  I  don't 
fancy  he  can  gallop  much— and  anyhow  with  Rod's 
weight  up  he  doesn't  stand  an  earthly.  This  is  a  new 
idea  of  Rodney's— racing  him.  He's  trained  the  horse 
himself,  and  imagines  Nigger's  done  some  wonder- 
fully fast  gallops.  But  I  think  Rod's  stop  watch  is  a  bit 
erratic.  Like  its  owner." 

"Is  he  erratic?" 

"A  bit  wild.  But  there's  good  solid  stuff  in  the  boy 
if  he  ever  settles  down." 

"Perhaps  if  he  marries  ..." 

"Oh,  Rod  would  fight  like  the  devil  against  mar- 
riage. And  the  only  sort  of  girl  who  would  stand  a 
chance  of  managing  him,  would  be  the  sort  of  girl 
he's  never  likely  to  meet." 

"Mrs.  Bentley's  a  widow,  isn't  she?" 

"He'll  never  marry  her.  That's  more  unlikely  than 
Nigger  winning  the  steeplechase  today." 


98  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

A  stream  of  traffic— cars,  men  on  horseback,  a  few 
odd  buggies,  and  Maoris  from  a  nearby  path  on  foot- 
were  now  approaching  the  gate  leading  into  the  big 
wire-fenced  paddock  in  which  lay  the  racecourse.  A 
rough  little  stand,  with  totalisator  shed,  stewards' 
room,  and  saddling  paddock  beside  it,  overlooked  the 
judge's  box  and  winning-post;  but  in  the  center  of 
the  course,  where  all  the  cars  and  other  vehicles  were 
parked,  rushes  and  briars  grew,  and  coarse  tussocky 
grass. 

Holmes  drew  up  amongst  the  other  cars;  and  with- 
in a  few  minutes  Waring  and  Vera  joined  them.  The 
Staffords,  Ralstons  and  many  of  those  who  attended 
the  polo  practice  matches  had  already  arrived,  so 
that  Ann  and  Vera  were  soon  members  of  a  large 
group,  all  extremely  well-known  to  one  another.  It 
was  quite  like  a  family  party  of  forty  or  fifty,  and  Ann 
was  one  of  the  few  who  was  not  addressed  by  her 
baptismal  name.  It  was  all  very  friendly  and  jolly, 
she  thought.  The  sun  shone,  the  larks  sang  over  the 
green  hills,  pink  flowering  briars  nodded  in  the  warm 
wind,  and  the  gay  colors  of  the  jockeys,  the  crude, 
vivid  dresses  of  the  Maori  women,  and  the  smarter 
attire  and  bright  parasols  of  the  sheep-farmers'  wives, 
made  a  moving  kaleidoscope  of  color.  The  women 
were  "making-up"  tickets  for  the  totalisator— only  a 
few  were  bold  enough  to  invest  the  full  amount  of 
one  pound.  For  the  most  part  they  betted  in  five- 
shilling  or  half-crown  shares.  Ann  had  half  a  crown 
on  the  first  race,  and  lost.  But  it  made  the  race  more 
exciting  to  have  a  monetary  interest  in  it.  After  that 
they  had  lunch,  every  one  bringing  sandwiches,  cake, 
fruit,  and  drinkables  from  the  cars  and  pooling  them. 


A  Race,  a  Dance,  a  Fight  99 

And  at  a  little  distance,  over  a  camp  fire,  the  inevi- 
table billy  boiled  for  tea. 

"Enjoying  it?"  asked  Vera,  carelessly,  when  she 
helped  herself  to  a  sandwich  from  a  basket  Ann 
passed  to  her. 

"Loving  it!  It  was  sweet  of  you  to  bring  me,"  an- 
swered Ann  quite  truthfully. 

Vera  smiled  at  her.  She  was  in  one  of  her  best 
moods  today— and  looking  her  best,  too— wearing  a 
smart  frock,  and  one  of  the  chic  little  hats  which  Ann 
had  made  for  her. 

"Harry  Kent  appears  to  think  it  sweet  of  me  also," 
observed  Vera.  "Oh,  here  he  is  again,"  she  added 
under  her  breath.  "He  doesn't  leave  you  for  long 
alone." 

"You  coming  to  the  dance  tonight,  Miss  Merrill?" 
asked  Kent  at  this  moment. 

"What  dance?" 

"We're  getting  up  a  dance  at  the  Omoana  Hall 
tonight.  You  and  Dick  are  coming,  aren't  you,  Mrs. 
Holmes?" 

"I  believe  so,"  answered  Vera. 

"And  Miss  Merrill?" 

"Mrs.  Pratt  and  Emily  can  sleep  up  at  the  house 
tonight,"  put  in  Holmes.  "No  need  for  you  to  stay  at 
home  for  that.  What  about  you,  Gerald?" 

"I've  got  to  get  back  to  Kopu  tonight." 

"Go  back  after  the  dance." 

"Yes,  I  could  do  that." 

No  more  was  said  about  the  dance,  and  Ann  did 
not  refer  to  it  again.  After  this  clay's  holiday  she 
hardly  expected  to  be  allowed  to  attend  the  dance  as 
well.  After  all,  she  wasn't  a  guest  staying  with  the 
Holmes's.  She  was  merely  the  governess.  Though  Vera 


ioo  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

Holmes  kept  her  busily  employed  in  many  different 
ways  in  the  house,  and  she  had  very  little  time  she 
could  really  call  her  own,  she  had  up  till  now  been 
included  in  almost  every  small  festivity.  She  couldn't 
expect  to  be  taken  everywhere.  And  it  was  enough 
for  her  to  know  that  she  was  enjoying  every  minute 
of  this  bright  day. 

It  was  just  before  the  horses  were  taken  into  the 
saddling  paddock  for  the  steeplechase,  that  she  met 
Rodney  Marsh.  Kent  had  been  called  away  by  some 
man,  and  Ann  stood  for  a  few  minutes  alone  near 
the  totalisator. 

"Going  to  have  a  ticket  on  Nigger?"  he  asked. 

"They  all  say  he  hasn't  any  chance." 

"Who's  'they'?"  he  inquired  contemptuously.  "I 
say  he  can  win.  I  ought  to  know." 

Ann  suddenly  made  up  her  mind.  She  pulled  out 
two  pound  notes  and  stuffed  them  into  his  hand. 

"Get  me  two  tickets,"  she  said  quickly. 

He  grinned  at  her. 

"You're  a  sport!"  he  remarked.  "Nigger  won't  let 
you  down." 

"He  did  once,"  she  answered  promptly. 

Marsh  laughed. 

"Well,  he  won't  this  time,  anyhow." 

He  dashed  off  to  get  the  tickets.  Ann  heard  the 
ring  of  the  totalisator  bell  as  he  put  the  money  on, 
and  in  a  moment  he  was  beside  her  again,  and  pushed 
the  tickets  into  her  hand. 

"By  the  way,  I've  got  something  belonging  to  you 
at  home.  I  meant  to  return  it  before  now." 

"Something  of  mine?" 

"That  poet  chap's  book.  I  borrowed  it  the  other 
day— cheek,  wasn't  it?" 


A  Race,  a  Dance,  a  Fight  101 

Ann  laughed.  She  couldn't  be  angry  with  him,  and 
she  was  glad  to  know  her  little  book  of  poems  wasn't 
lost. 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  me  to  lend  it  to  you?"  she 
asked. 

"You'd  have  thought  you'd  converted  me,"  he  an- 
swered, grinning. 

"Did  you  read  it?" 

He  nodded. 

"And  did  you  like  it?" 

"Some  of  it.  I  liked  bits  of  that  'Hound  of  Heaven' 
thing— some  of  it  sounded  like  a  horse  galloping.  A 
sort  of  swinging  sound  in  it.  Of  course  he  puts  in  a  lot 
of  long  words  that  don't  mean  much.  Still,  I  guess 
you  were  right.  I  expect  he's  a  poet.  I  must  be  off." 

"Good  luck,"  said  Ann.  "Don't  forget  I've  got  two 
tickets  on  your  horse." 

"Well,  you'll  get  a  straight  run  for  your  money, 
anyhow.  I've  just  put  twenty  pounds  on  the  tote 
myself." 

He  moved  swiftly  away  towards  the  saddling  pad- 
dock, and  a  few  minutes  later  he  was  cantering  down 
the  straight  on  Nigger. 

Ann  told  no  one  she  had  backed  Nigger.  That  was 
her  little  secret— hers  and  Rodney's.  Why  was  she 
glad  to  share  this  with  him?  And  why  glad  that  he 
had  impertinently  stolen  her  book?  She  didn't  know; 
but  it  seemed  to  establish  some  small  bond  of  friend- 
ship between  them.  Of  course  he  wouldn't  win! 
Everybody  said  he  hadn't  a  chance.  Nevertheless,  Ann 
felt  no  regret  for  the  loss  of  her  two  pounds.  She 
and  Kent  joined  the  others  in  the  stand  to  watch  the 
race.  There  were  seven  horses  running,  and  some  of 
them  gave  a  little  trouble  at  the  starting-post. 


102  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"They're  off!" 

Nigger  had  got  away  well,  and  was  lying  third.  The 
two  first  horses  made  the  running,  but  Nigger  was 
jumping  faultlessly  and  going  strongly— not  gaining 
on  the  leaders,  but  keeping  his  place.  All  safely  over 
the  first  three  fences!  But  at  the  fourth,  one  horse 
fell,  and  another  challenged  Nigger  and  took  third 
place.  "He's  beaten!"  thought  Ann,  for  when  they 
passed  the  stand  the  first  time  Marsh  was  last.  But 
there  wasn't  much  gap  between  the  horses,  and  at  the 
sod  wall  another  fell.  Ann  had  her  heart  in  her  mouth 
at  each  mishap,  but  the  jockeys  rose  again  in  a  sec- 
ond, and  apparently  no  damage  was  done  to  either 
horses  or  riders.  At  the  back  of  the  course  Nigger 
moved  up.  He  was  third  again— now  he  was  second. 

"By  Jove!  Nigger's  got  a  chance  if  he  can  stay  the 
distance,"  said  Holmes. 

Ann's  little  figure  was  tense  with  excitement.  Could 
he  win?  How  wonderful  if  he  could  win!  She  hadn't 
given  a  thought  to  the  money  she'd  invested.  She 
only  longed  for  Rodney  Marsh  to  prove  himself  right 
—to  triumph.  They  were  facing  the  last  fence  now, 
and  the  race  resolved  itself  into  a  contest  between 
Marsh  and  the  leading  jockey.  Both  over!  But  alas, 
the  other  horse  gained  at  the  jump.  He  flew  his 
fences  with  scarcely  an  inch  to  spare.  Nigger  jumped 
bigger.  Marsh's  opponent  led  by  a  length  and  a  half 
as  they  entered  the  straight.  But  foot  by  foot  Nigger 
came  up— he  had  decreased  the  lead  by  a  length— 
now  he  was  drawing  level,  and  now  neck  and  neck 
they  raced.  Yells  from  the  stand— Ann  joining  in  the 
yelling!  He  was  winning— Rodney  was  winning!  He'd 
won! 


A  Race,  a  Dance,  a  Fight  103 

Ann  sat  down  suddenly  in  a  little  huddled  heap. 
Then  all  at  once  she  remembered  her  tickets. 

"I  believe  I've  won  something,"  she  remarked. 

"Did  you  back  Nigger?"  asked  Vera  Holmes  curi- 
ously. 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"He  was  the  first  horse  I  was  ever  on.  Riding,  I 
mean." 

"Good  for  you!"  said  Kent.  "He'll  pay  a  thumping 
dividend— about  sixteen  pounds,  I  should  think." 

Ann  made  a  hurried  calculation.  Twenty  times  six- 
teen. Over  three  hundred  pounds!  The  stakes  were 
fifty.  Rodney  Marsh  would  be  richer  by  nearly  four 
hundred  pounds!  A  little  fortune,  so  it  seemed  to 
Ann. 

"How  much  did  you  have  on?"  asked  Vera. 

"Twenty  pounds,"  said  Ann. 

"Twenty  pounds!"  shrieked  Vera. 

"No!  No!  I  mean  I  suppose  I'll  win  that,"  said 
Ann.  "I  had  two  tickets." 

To  her  surprise  she  knew  that  she  was  blushing,  but 
that  was  the  excitement. 

"More  like  thirty  pounds,  if  you've  got  two  tickets," 
said  Kent. 

"You  little  plunger!"  said  Vera. 

Ann  wanted  to  rush  down  to  the  paddcok  to  con- 
gratulate Rodney,  but  she  couldn't  leave  her  own 
party  to  do  that;  and  after  all  he  wouldn't  miss  her 
congratulations.  He  had  his  own  friends— any  num- 
ber of  them,  crowding  round  him.  Mrs.  Bentley  was 
down  there,  shaking  him  by  both  hands.  Ann  saw  the 
handsome,  laughing  face  turned  towards  the  woman 
from  Omoana. 


104  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

For  no  reason  at  all  Ann  suddenly  hated  Mrs. 
Bentley. 

2. 

Ann  went  to  the  dance.  Again,  she  was  not  quite 
sure  whom  she  had  to  thank  for  this  further  festivity. 
A  queer  little  suspicion— which  she  instantly  dismissed 
as  disloyal  and  absurd— had  occurred  to  her.  Did  Mrs. 
Holmes  raise  no  objection  to  the  arrangement  because 
Ann  took  Dick  Holmes  off  her  hands,  and  allowed 
her— Vera— to  devote  herself  to  Waring?  Ridiculous! 
Waring  and  Mrs.  Holmes  were  just  old  friends, 
and  nothing  more.  Vera  loved  admiration  from  any 
man,  and  she  looked  upon  Gerald  as  her  own  especial 
property.  She  teased  him  openly  about  his  flirtations; 
told  him  frankly  that  no  woman  with  any  sense 
would  ever  take  him  seriously;  but  admitted  that  his 
conversation  amused  her  when  he  could  manage  to 
get  away  for  a  few  minutes  from  the  everlasting 
and  enthralling  subject  of  sheep. 

Surely  that  wasn't  the  manner  of  a  woman  carrying 
on  any  underhand  flirtation?  And  Waring  was  Dick 
Holmes's  best  friend. 

Ann  scolded  herself  for  the  fleeting  moment  of  dis- 
trust. 

In  spite  of  the  excitement  of  stuffing  thirty-five  dirty 
pound  notes,  and  some  odd  silver,  into  her  bag  after 
Nigger's  sensational  win,  Ann  had  found  the  rest 
of  the  afternoon  at  the  races  a  little  flat,  and  she  made 
up  her  mind  that  she  would  enjoy  every  moment  of 
the  dance. 

She  had  not  seen  Marsh  after  the  race.  Driving 
with  Holmes  into  Omoana  after  dinner,  she  learnt 


A  Race,  a  Dance,  a  Fight  105 

that  the  head-shepherd  had  won  just  over  four  hun- 
dred pounds. 

"I'm  afraid  the  young  fool  will  be  sitting  up  till 
all  hours  gambling  at  Omoana  tonight.  Mrs.  Bentley 
plays  a  pretty  stiff  game  of  poker,  I  believe.  Well,  I 
hope  he'll  have  something— beyond  a  bad  head— to 
remind  him  of  his  win  in  the  morning." 

So  that  was  where  Rodney  Marsh  would  be  this 
evening!  Gambling  with  Mrs.  Bentley  and  a  few 
choice  spirits  at  the  "pub,"  while  Ann  herself  was 
dancing  at  the  Omoana  Hall  only  a  few  yards  or  so 
away! 

"Well,  what  does  it  matter  to  me?"  she  asked  her- 
self impatiently.  "I  know  that  such  things  happen. 
That's  his  idea  of  life  and  happiness.  We're  not  all 
built  alike."  But  she  was  conscious  of  a  small  sharp 
stab  of  regret.  He  was  so  strong,  so  fearless,  and  so 
handsome.  Surely  too  fine  a  man  to  waste  his  glowing 
youth  in  such  a  futile  way.  And  though  she  enjoyed 
the  dance,  the  thought  of  Rodney  lay  on  her  mind 
like  a  little  shadow  which  might  rise  at  any  moment 
to  dim  her  pleasure. 

Vera  again  occupied  a  seat  in  Waring's  car  on  the 
drive  in  to  Omoana— "to  open  gates  for  him"— but 
as  he  was  going  on  to  Kopu  after  the  dance,  she 
would  be  returning  home  with  her  husband  and  Ann. 

Apparently  the  dance  was  a  community  affair,  the 
men  having  hired  the  hall  and  provided  the  pianist— 
a  half-caste  Maori  woman  who  usually  played  for  "the 
pictures"— and  the  women  having  brought  the  sup- 
per of  sandwiches,  cake  and  fruit. 

Ann,  like  all  the  other  girls  and  young  married 
women,  suffered  from  no.  lack  of  partners.  There  were 
at  least  a  dozen  men  too  many.  Though  programs 


io6  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

were  not  provided,  Ann  had  only  one  dance  un- 
booked when  Waring  came  across  the  room  to  her. 

"You're  a  most  elusive  little  devil,"  he  remarked 
in  his  casual  drawl.  "Why  do  you  keep  out  of  my 
way  whenever  I  visit  Tirau?" 

"You  apparently  don't  notice  my  presence  at  meal- 
times." 

"Annoyed?"  he  asked. 

She  laughed  at  him  quite  frankly. 

"Not  a  bit.  Only  you  can't  have  it  both  ways,  you 
know.  You  can't  ignore  me  in  public  and  expect  me 
to  be  overjoyed  by  your  desire  to  waylay  me  in  pri- 
vate." 

"I  have  my  reasons." 

"I've  no  doubt  you  have." 

"I'll  tell  you  them  one  of  these  days." 

"They  don't  interest  me." 

"Quite  sure  you're  speaking  the  truth?" 

She  laughed  again. 

"If  it  pleases  your  vanity  to  believe  I'm  not ..." 

"It  does.  You're  going  to  dance  with  me?" 

"Of  course— why  not?  The  tenth?" 

"That'll  be  about  supper  time.  You'll  keep  that 
for  me?" 

"Certainly.  If  I  can  remember  it  and  you  don't 
forget." 

"Not  much  chance  of  my  forgetting  it." 

But  again  Ann  knew,  in  spite  of  the  smiling  in- 
difference of  her  manner,  that  she  wasn't  altogether 
displeased  by  the  knowledge  that  she  was  a  good  deal 
in  his  thoughts.  During  the  intervals  of  the  dances 
many  couples  left  the  hall,  strolling  outside  in  the 
warm  moonlight.  Ann  had  determined  she  would  not 
do  this  with  Waring.  And  yet,  just  as  her  dance  with 


A  Race,  a  Dance,  a  Fight  107 

him  came  to  an  end,  she  changed  her  mind.  A  man 
passing  her  remarked  laughingly  to  a  friend:  "A 
rough  house  down  the  road  at  Bentley's." 

Was  Rodney  Marsh  there?  Suddenly  Ann  deter- 
mined that  she  would  stroll  with  Waring  past  the 
hotel,  towards  the  sea. 

She  made  no  objection  to  his  suggestion  that  they 
should  go  out.  At  the  hotel  the  light  from  the  open 
windows  was  streaming  across  the  sandy  road.  A 
gramophone  was  going,  and  a  rival  dance  was  in 
progress.  Maori  men  and  women,  hands  from  the 
dairy  factory,  and  others  were  fox-trotting  noisily  on 
the  veranda.  But  within  a  room  to  the  right  of  the 
hall  a  few  loungers  stood  looking  down  at  the  center 
table,  where  Mrs.  Bentley,  a  woman  friend,  Jack 
Smith,  Marsh  and  another  man  sat  playing  cards. 
There  were  little  piles  of  notes  upon  the  table  and 
half-emptied  glasses.  The  hanging  lamp  was  above 
the  players,  and  Ann  saw  clearly  Rodney's  flushed 
face,  his  rumpled  hair,  and  his  strong  brown  fore- 
arms below  the  rolled-up  shirt  sleeves.  Again  she  was 
conscious  of  some  feeling  she  could  not  clearly  define. 
There  was  regret  in  it,  but  there  was  resentment  too. 
Why  should  she  feel  this?  What  did  it  matter  to  her 
how  Rodney  Marsh  employed  his  leisure?  She  dis- 
missed all  thought  of  him— or  imagined  she  did— 
and  walked  on  with  Waring  towards  the  sandhills,  her 
heart  filled  with  an  angry  recklessness.  "Eat,  drink 
and  be  merry,  for  tomorrow  you  die!"  That  seemed 
to  be  the  motto  of  men  like  Marsh!  Well,  she  her- 
self would  try  it  for  a  change!  And  so,  when  they 
came  to  the  shadow  of  an  old  willow  tree  growing 
beyond  the  hotel,  and  Waring  took  her  in  his  arms, 
she  did  not  resist.  He  held  her  close,  kissing  her 


io8  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

passionately  on  mouth  and  eyes  and  throat.  The 
warm  wind  stirred  the  leafy  branches  of  the  willow 
overhead.  The  moonlight  lay  white  on  the  sandhills; 
above  the  dull,  incessant  roaring  of  the  surf,  sounded 
the  music  of  the  gramophone  from  Bentley's— and 
with  that  thin  stream  of  melody  came  back  the  mem- 
ory of  Rodney  Marsh.  Not  Marsh  as  Ann  had  seen 
him  tonight,  but  Marsh  walking  beside  her  in  the 
spring  sunshine  as  she  sat  perched  up  in  his  saddle, 
riding  Nigger;  Marsh  chaffing  her  as  she  drove  the 
sheep  into  the  race  at  the  yards;  Marsh  listening  to 
her  as  she  read  "Daisy"  on  the  hillside  overlooking 
the  sea.  And  suddenly  Ann  saw  very  clearly  that  dis- 
aster had  come  upon  her.  She  didn't  want  to  share  her 
life  with  honest  Bob  Greenaway,  whom  she  would 
always  trust  and  respect  as  a  dear  friend,  but  whose 
kiss  had  no  power  to  stir  her  heart  to  a  quicker  beat; 
nor  did  she  desire  to  take  as  a  life  partner  Gerald 
Waring,  whom  she  neither  trusted  nor  respected,  but 
whose  kisses  now  had  set  her  pulses  racing  furiously. 
There  was  another  man— a  man  indifferent  to  her— 
and  one  with  whom,  in  any  case,  marriage  would  be 
impossible.  One  married  into  one's  own  class,  not  be- 
neath it. 

She  disengaged  herself  from  Waring's  close  embrace 
and  moved  out  of  the  shadow.  Other  strolling  dancers 
might  see  them  now,  and  Waring  would  not  dare  to 
kiss  her  again.  She  knew  that  she  was  shaken,  but 
she  had  sense  enough  to  assume  a  calmness  she  was 
far  from  feeling. 

"I  don't  think  we'll  repeat  that . . .  that  experi- 
ment," she  said. 

Waring  was  standing  close  to  her. 

"Was  that  all  it  was  to  you?"  he  asked. 


A  Race,  a  Dance,  a  Fight  109 

For  the  first  time  Ann  heard  his  voice  husky  and 
uneven. 

"Of  course,"  she  answered.  "I  oughtn't  to  have 
allowed  it,  I  know.  But  it  seemed  easier  than  an  un- 
dignified scuffle." 

"It  meant . . .  nothing  to  you,  then?" 

"Quite  as  little  as  it  meant  to  you." 

"By  God,  if  it  meant  as  much  ..."  He  broke  off, 
and  Ann  moved  a  step  or  two  towards  the  hotel.  She 
would  never  risk  being  alone  with  him  again,  she 
decided.  He  walked  beside  her  in  silence,  his  face 
looking  rather  white  and  strained  in  the  moonlight. 

They  were  abreast  of  the  hotel,  when  out  of  the 
doors,  and  across  the  veranda  into  the  moonlight  road- 
way, surged  a  crowd  of  shouting,  gesticulating  men 
and  women.  A  fight  was  in  progress.  Again  Ann  knew 
a  moment  of  bitter  heart-sickness,  for  she  saw  that  the 
two  sparring  and  hitting  furiously  were  Rodney 
Marsh  and  Hicky,  the  big  half-caste.  Was  this  the  man 
she  thought  of  more  than  all  the  others?  This 
drunken,  dishevelled  shepherd?  She  stood  quite  still, 
unnoticed  amongst  the  excited  crowd.  Waring  was 
touching  her  arm. 

"Come  away,"  he  said,  "this  is  no  place  for  you." 

"Go  back  to  the  hall  if  you  want  to,"  she  said 
sharply,  "and  leave  me." 

"Don't  talk  nonsense." 

The  fight  went  on.  No  one  interfered  with  the  two 
men.  At  last,  with  one  terrific  blow,  Marsh  felled  his 
opponent.  The  crowd  gathered  round  the  fallen  man, 
and  Ann  knew  that  she  was  separated  from  Waring, 
and  standing  close  beside  the  victor. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Rodney,  will  you  go  home . . .  now?"  she  said. 


no  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

He  looked  down  at  her,  dazed  and  bewildered.  His 
breath  was  coming  in  great  shuddering  gasps. 

"What  are  you  . . .  doing . . .  here?" 

"We're  at  the  hall.  Promise  me  you  won't  fight 
again— that  you'll  go  home.  Promise  me."  Her  voice 
was  urgent. 

"All  right,"  he  answered  thickly.  "If  Hicky  isn't 
badly  damaged  I'll  go." 

The  injured  man  had  risen.  He  was  dazed,  but 
apparently  uninjured.  Waring  again  was  at  Ann's 
side. 

"Is  he  hurt?"  she  asked. 

"No,  only  knocked  out.  But  he's  taken  all  the  pun- 
ishment he  wants  for  the  moment— come  away." 

Ann  moved  back  to  the  hall  beside  him. 

Later,  driving  back  to  Tirau,  she  heard  Vera  and 
Holmes  in  the  front  seat  discussing  the  encounter. 

"It's  lucky  for  Marsh  that  the  constable  didn't  take 
him  in  charge  this  evening,"  said  Vera. 

"Shaw  very  wisely  goes  to  bed  early  on  race  night," 
replied  Holmes  drily. 

"I  suppose  that  idiotic  youth  has  lost  most  of  the 
money  he  won  today." 

"About  a  hundred  of  it,  I  believe." 

"He'll  have  lost  it  all  before  breakfast-time." 

"I  don't  think  so.  He  went  home  directly  after 
the  fight." 

He'd  kept  his  promise,  then!  Ann's  sore  heart  knew 
a  little  healing. 


VI 

The  Accident — and  After 


i. 

FOR  the  next  fortnight,  Ann  saw  neither  Rodney 
Marsh  nor  Gerald  Waring,  except  in  the  presence  of 
others.  She  had  determined  that  she  would  do  her 
best  never  to  speak  to  either  of  them  alone  again. 
She  devoted  herself  to  the  little  girls;  did  all  the  odd 
jobs  she  could  find  to  do  for  Mrs.  Holmes;  and  in  her 
spare  moments— which  were  very  few— tried  to  read 
solid  improving  literature.  Romantic  fiction  and 
poems  concerning  love  she  resolutely  barred.  She  was 
determined  to  occupy  her  mind  with  thoughts  which 
had  very  little  connection  with  sentiment.  But  alas, 
she  was  young,  and  ardent,  and  all  nature,  all  the 
glamor  of  the  warm  bright  days,  and  the  freshness 
and  novelty  of  this  new  life,  seemed  to  tempt  her  to 
dream  of  some  indefinite  but  blissful  future.  What 
was  the  sense  of  indulging  in  these  dreams,  she  asked 
herself  disgustedly. 

She  would  not  dignify  by  the  name  of  love  the  feel- 
ing she  knew  now  that  she  entertained  for  Rodney 
Marsh.  She  told  herself  that  it  was  a  stupid  infatua- 
tion, born  of  his  good  looks,  and  his  attractive  person- 
ality. The  attachment  of  a  sentimental  schoolgirl  for 
a  romantic-looking  music  master! 

As  for  the  disturbing  influence  of  Gerald  Waring, 


112  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

she  recognized  it  honestly  for  what  it  was— something 
entirely  physical,  springing  from  sex  interest,  with- 
out affection  or  regard.  That  certainly  wasn't  love, 
though  she  shrewdly  suspected  it  was  what  hurried 
many  young  couples  into  wedlock,  often  with  the 
most  disastrous  results.  No,  she  wasn't  likely  to  marry 
Gerald  Waring,  even  if  he  lost  his  head  completely 
enough  to  want  her  to  do  so. 

But  if  Rodney  Marsh  were  to  ask  her  to  be  his 
wife?  She  turned  away  from  this  question  when  it 
presented  itself  to  her.  Sometimes  she  saw  herself  set- 
tled in  the  homestead  of  a  little  farm,  an  ideally 
happy  wife.  That  was  one  picture.  Was  it  a  true 
one?  Wasn't  there  one  more  real  and  by  no  means  so 
pleasant?  A  girl  accustomed  to  a  certain  standard  of 
living— of  culture— married  to  a  half-educated  work- 
ing man;  entertaining  his  friends— the  blacksmith  and 
the  plowboy,  and  the  riff-raff  from  the  "pub"? 

Why  see  these  pictures  at  all?  Rodney  had  no  more 
thought  of  her  as  a  wife  than  he  had  of  Emily  Pratt, 
the  little  housemaid.  Less,  perhaps;  for  all  she  knew 
he  might  have  found  Emily  quite  attractive.  Was 
Rodney  right?  Were  women's  thoughts  almost  exclu- 
sively occupied  with  love  and  marriage?  Certainly 
not!  Ann,  with  a  sudden  fierceness,  attacked  the  hats 
she  was  trimming  for  the  little  girls,  stabbing  them 
with  pins. 

2. 

The  Coast  Team  for  the  polo  tournament,  held  at 
Wairiri  in  Christmas  week,  had  now  been  chosen: 
Holmes,  Waring,  Marsh,  and  Kent,  with  Ralston  as 
emergency  man. 

Rodney,  accompanied  by  two  grooms,  was  to  make 


The  Accident— and  After  113 

a  start  for  Wairiri  with  the  ponies  on  Christmas  Eve; 
while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Holmes,  and  Waring,  planned  to 
leave  Tirau  on  Boxing  Day.  They  would  all  be  away 
until  after  the  New  Year,  and  during  their  absence 
the  Pratt  family  were  to  sleep  up  at  the  house,  so 
that  Ann  and  the  children  should  not  be  quite  alone. 

A  short  time  before  Christmas  some  cattle  from  the 
back  of  the  run  were  mustered,  in  order  to  brand  and 
mark  the  calves.  The  greater  part  of  the  branding 
had  been  done  after  the  shearing.  These  cows  were  a 
small  wild  mob  from  the  bush  country. 

Holmes  and  the  men  on  the  place  had  been  kept 
hard  at  work  sowing  rape,  picking  fat  lambs  for  the 
Freezing  Works,  shearing  the  others,  and  weaning; 
now,  until  the  second  week  in  January,  when  dipping 
and  culling  began,  there  would  be  a  lull  in  the  sta- 
tion work. 

The  barking  of  dogs,  the  cracking  of  stock-whips, 
the  galloping  thud  of  the  horses'  hoofs,  as  the  men 
drafted  the  bellowing  cattle  in  the  paddocks  down 
near  the  yards,  fascinated  Ann.  This  was  more  exr 
citing  to  watch  than  polo,  and  it  called  for  equally 
good— if  not  better— horsemanship. 

Rodney  was  not  riding  Nigger.  Since  this  animal 
had  proved  himself  a  steeplechase  winner,  Marsh  used 
another  hack  for  station  work.  Holmes  chaffed  the 
young  shepherd  about  it.  Asked  him  if  he  were  con- 
templating giving  up  his  job,  and  taking  to  racing. 
Rodney  smiled  good-humoredly,  but  kept  his  inten- 
tions to  himself. 

Today  the  horse  he  rode  was  not  as  clever,  nor  as 
experienced  as  Nigger  at  cutting  out  cattle,  so  that 
Marsh  was  having  harder  work  than  usual. 

Ann,  busy  in  the  school-room  setting  copies  and 


ii4  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

little  sums,  had  promised  the  children  they  should 
go  down  to  join  their  father  at  the  woolshed  for  a 
few  minutes  before  lunch.  She  did  not  add  that  she 
herself  was  just  as  anxious  to  view  the  proceedings 
at  close  quarters  as  they  were.  Was  it  the  prospect 
of  a  chance  word  with  Rodney  Marsh  that  drew  her 
towards  the  yards?  She  wouldn't  answer  that  question. 

But  running  down  the  hillside  in  the  sunshine  with 
the  little  girls,  Mrs.  Holmes's  voice  from  the  veranda 
called  to  her.  Ann  halted,  and  Biddy  and  Jo  went 
on.  Mrs.  Holmes  wanted  her  for  some  reason  to  come 
back  to  the  house. 

"I  don't  like  leaving  the  children,"  she  shouted  in 
reply. 

"They're  all  right,"  called  Mrs.  Holmes. 

But  they  were  not  all  right. 

Deciding  to  take  a  short  cut  to  the  woolshed,  they 
had  already  climbed  through  the  wire  fence  into  the 
paddock  from  which  the  cattle  had  been  driven  into 
the  yards. 

Ann  shrieked  to  them  to  come  back,  for  she  saw 
what  they  apparently  did  not,  that  the  bellowing 
cows  were  now  returning;  but  they  either  did  not,  or 
would  not,  hear. 

Disregarding  Vera's  calls,  Ann  fled  down  the  hill  in 
pursuit  of  her  charges.  She  scrambled  through  the 
wire  fence  and  raced  after  them.  Heavens!  The  mob 
were  now  pouring  out  from  the  yards  into  the  open, 
and  charging  in  a  blind  rush,  straight  down  towards 
the  children. 

Suddenly  Biddy  and  Jo,  realizing  their  danger, 
turned  and  tore  back  to  the  fence  as  fast  as  their  short 
little  legs  could  carry  them.  But  what  chance  would 
they  have  of  evading  destruction?  None!  Unless  the 


The  Accident— and  After  115 

advancing  flood  of  red  and  white  horned  beasts  could 
be  stemmed  or  diverted.  Ann,  standing  facing  the 
on-coming  rush,  snatched  off  her  broad-brimmed  hat 
and  stood  waving  it  frantically,  and  shrieking  at  the 
top  of  her  voice.  Canute  as  successfully  commanded 
the  tides! 

The  herd  came  thundering  on.  But  just  as  she 
had  given  up  all  hope,  she  was  aware  of  a  chorus  of 
barking  dogs,  and  the  sound  of  galloping  hoofs. 
Marsh,  racing  down  on  the  inside  of  the  fence,  headed 
off  the  mob,  who  in  a  few  seconds  were  stampeding 
out  towards  the  open  paddock,  leaving  Ann  and  the 
little  girls  safe  and  unharmed.  Rodney  Marsh,  how- 
ever, was  not  so  fortunate.  Swinging  round  sharply 
to  avoid  a  charging  beast,  his  horse  came  crashing  to 
the  ground.  He  was  in  no  danger  now  from  the  cattle, 
for  they  had  passed  on,  but  when  his  horse  rose,  Ann 
saw  that  he  still  remained  lying  where  he  had  fallen. 
She  rushed  across  to  the  spot  where  he  lay,  but  before 
she  reached  him  he  was  sitting  up,  and  Dick  Holmes 
was  galloping  towards  them. 

"Hurt,  Rod?"  he  called. 

Marsh,  looking  rather  white,  tried  to  get  on  to  his 
feet,  and  then  sank  back  again. 

"The  old  knee  gone  again,  I  think,"  he  announced 
laconically. 

Holmes  and  Ann  were  standing  beside  him. 

"Don't  move  then,"  said  Holmes. 

"If  I'd  been  riding  Nigger,  this  wouldn't  have  hap- 
pened." Marsh's  voice  expressed  disgust.  "It's  good- 
bye to  the  polo  tournament  for  me  now." 

"Perhaps  it  isn't  as  bad  as  you  think." 

"Bad  enough.  The  knee's  gone  all  right." 

"Keep  still  then.  We'll  carry  you  in.  Miss  Merrill, 


n6  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

will  you  run  up  to  the  house  and  telephone  to  Omo- 
ana  for  Doctor  Spencer?" 

Ann  sped  away  towards  the  house.  She  knew  that 
if  Holmes  had  not  arrived  when  he  did,  she  would 
have  put  her  arms  around  Rodney,  or  made  some 
other  equally  ridiculous  gesture  of  consolation.  She 
had  been  prevented  from  making  a  fool  of  herself; 
but,  as  it  was,  she  hadn't  uttered  one  word  of  thanks 
to  Rodney  Marsh  for  thus  saving  her  a  second  time 
from  sudden  death. 


3- 

The  head-shepherd  was  right. 

When  the  polo  team  departed  for  Wairiri,  he  was 
left  lying  in  the  cottage,  with  his  knee  in  splints.  The 
injury  proved  to  be  severe  synovitis,  and  Dr.  Spencer 
refused  to  allow  the  patient  to  move  out  of  bed  for 
the  first  ten  days  at  least.  Ann  sent  messages  to  the 
young  man  by  Dick  Holmes,  but  did  not  attempt 
to  see  him.  He  suffered  from  no  lack  of  visitors  how- 
ever. Jack  Smith  motored  over  from  Omoana  to  see 
him,  and  there  were  many  other  callers.  But  on 
Boxing  Day  he  was  to  be  alone.  A  race  meeting  fur- 
ther up  the  coast  claimed  the  attention  of  most  of 
the  residents  of  Omoana;  and  before  Dick  Holmes 
departed  with  Vera  and  Waring  for  Wairiri,  he  asked 
Ann  to  visit  the  solitary  invalid. 

"I'm  sure  he'd  like  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "And  it's 
rotten  bad  luck  for  him,  knowing  we've  all  gone  off 
to  the  tournament.  He's  very  keen  on  polo.  Try  and 
cheer  him  up  a  bit." 

Ann  was  free,  for  the  little  girls  had  gone  over  to 
play  with  Alice  and  Connie  Ralston,  and  about  three 


The  Accident— and  After  117 

o'clock  she  decided  she  would  walk  across  the  paddock 
to  the  cottage. 

Rodney's  bed  was  drawn  close  to  the  open  window 
of  one  of  the  front  rooms,  looking  out  on  to  the 
veranda,  and  through  the  curtain  of  creepers  he  saw 
Ann  as  she  came  up  from  the  gate,  across  the  neg- 
lected, overgrown  garden. 

"Hospital  visiting?"  he  asked,  as  she  hesitated  on 
the  doorstep. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  smiling  at  him.  "May  I  come 
in?" 

"Of  course.  You've  been  a  long  time  making  up 
your  mind  to  call  and  inquire  after  my  health." 

"I  did  inquire." 

"I  don't  count  messages.  I  like  personal  inquiries." 

"You've  had  so  many  visitors,  I  didn't  think  you'd 
want  to  see  me." 

She  entered  the  little  passage,  and  turned  in  at  the 
open  door. 

"I  want  to  see  everybody,"  he  returned.  "What's 
the  good  of  being  on  the  sick-list  if  you  don't  get  a 
little  attention?" 

"You've  had  too  much,  that's  quite  evident.  You're 
thoroughly  spoilt." 

"Not  nearly  spoilt  enough,"  he  returned.  "Can 
you  find  a  chair  somewhere?" 

She  knew  that  missing  the  tournament  had  been  a 
very  great  disappointment  to  him,  and  that  this 
period  of  enforced  rest  must  be  galling  to  any  one  of 
such  an  active  temperament.  He  was  not  whining  over 
it  however.  With  a  warm  little  glow  at  her  heart  she 
realized  that  she  had  not  been  mistaken  in  her  esti- 
mate of  him.  He  had  the  best  sort  of  courage.  He 
wouldn't  admit  defeat. 


n8  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"You  know,  I've  never  thanked  you  for  saving  my 
life  the  other  day." 

"I  didn't  do  anything.  Just  turned  those  darned 
cows— that's  all." 

"Well,  if  you  hadn't,  where  should  I  have  been?" 

He  shrugged  his  big  shoulders,  propped  up  against 
the  pillows. 

"Can't  tell  you  that.  But  there's  one  thing  I  will 
tell  you."  He  turned  and  looked  at  her  steadily. 
"You're  a  damned  good  plucked  'un.  You  were  doing 
your  best  to  save  the  kids." 

She  blushed,  and  felt  angry  with  herself  for 
blushing. 

"One  does  things  like  that  without  thinking. 
They're  not  brave  really." 

"If  a  man  or  a  woman  isn't  plucky,  they  do  stop 
to  think,"  he  remarked  shrewdly.  "I've  often  seen  'em 
thinking." 

She  laughed. 

"I'm  horribly  afraid  of  lots  of  things." 

"What  sort  of  things?" 

"Oh,  frogs,  and  cows,  and  geese,  and  mice,  and 
spiders.  And  in  the  dark  I'm  often  scared.  One  night 
I  met  Mrs.  Holmes  walking  in  her  sleep.  I  was  terri- 
fied!" 

"Walking  in  her  sleep!" 

He  merely  repeated  her  phrase,  and  yet  the  sound 
had  something  in  it,  which  gave  her  a  sensation  of 
discomfort.  What  underlay  his  tone?  Contempt?  It 
wasn't  definite  enough  for  that,  and  yet  it  seemed  to 
wake  in  her  a  vague  impalpable  suspicion  forgotten 
now  for  weeks.  There  was  a  question  she  had  never 
asked.  What  was  it?  Ah,  now  she  had  it.  Why  did 
Mrs.  Holmes  say  that  night,  "It's  just  after  two,  isn't 


The  Accident— and  After  119 

it?"  How,  if  she  were  really  sleeping,  did  she  guess  the 
time?  Ann  didn't  like  that  question— didn't  want  to 
think  Mrs.  Holmes  was  acting.  What  motive  would 
she  have  for  such  a  foolish  deception?  And  she  wasn't 
acting  when  she  wept  and  shivered.  Her  tears  were 
real  enough.  Ann  pushed  aside  all  thought  of  Mrs. 
Holmes.  At  any  rate  she  had  no  intention  of  discuss- 
ing her  employer  with  any  one. 

"Can  you  keep  a  secret?"  asked  Marsh  suddenly. 

Ann  turned  in  quick  alarm. 

"I  don't  like  secrets,"  she  answered.  "Especially  if 
they  concern  other  people." 

"This  only  concerns  me." 

Ann  drew  a  breath  of  relief. 

"Yes,  I  could  keep  that,"  she  answered. 

"Me  and  Nigger,"  he  went  on. 

"Tell  me."  Ann's  eyes  were  bright  with  interest. 
"I  never  thanked  you  for  winning  that  money  for 
me." 

He  grinned. 

"What  did  you  do  with  it?" 

"I've  got  it  at  home.  It  ought  to  be  in  the  Savings 
Bank.  How  much  did  you  lose  of  yours?" 

"Only  about  a  quarter  of  it.  The  rest's  safe— for 
the  present."  He  was  still  smiling  at  her.  "But  I'm 
doing  it  in  on  Nigger." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Swear  you  won't  give  me  away?  I  haven't  told 
any  one  yet." 

"Not  even  Mrs.  Bentley?"  said  Ann. 

The  words  seemed  to  have  spoken  themselves  with- 
out her  volition.  How  gauche,  how  outrageous  of  her 
to  have  made  that  remark! 


120  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"I've  never  talked  to  her  like  I  talk  to  you,"  replied 
Marsh  shortly. 

Ann  was  silent.  She  began  to  think  that  by  her  un- 
fortunate observation  she  had  lost  the  precious  secret, 
and  she  was  tremendously  anxious  to  hear  it.  Some- 
thing to  do  with  racing  it  must  be.  Ann  had  been 
thrilled  by  the  steeplechase.  Any  further  racing  news 
was  of  great  importance. 

"Nigger's  to  race  in  Wairiri  in  the  autumn.  A 
trainer  I  know  is  going  in  with  me,  and  we're  enter- 
ing him  for  the  Grand  National,"  said  Marsh  impres- 
sively. "And  what's  more  he's  going  to  win  it." 

The  Grand  National!  That  was  the  great  race  Dick 
Holmes  had  mentioned,  when  laughing  at  Nigger's 
chances  at  Omoana.  Well,  if  Rodney  thought  his 
horse  could  win,  he'd  probably  do  so.  Rodney  had 
been  right  at  Omoana.  He'd  prove  himself  right 
again.  Ann  had  perfect  faith  in  him. 

"Every body '11  call  me  no  end  of  a  fool,"  said  Rod- 
ney. "They'll  talk  about  his  age— say  he'll  crack  up 
in  training.  But  I  know  what  the  horse  can  do.  They 
said  he  won  the  steeplechase  by  a  fluke,  and  because 
he  had  nothing  good  against  him.  I  know  better.  He 
was  winning  all  the  way.  I  could  have  won  by  fifteen 
lengths  if  I'd  wanted  to." 

Ann  accepted  all  this.  To  her  it  wasn't  boasting. 
It  was  a  plain  statement  of  fact.  Rodney  knew  about 
such  things.  She  felt  enormously  flattered  that  he 
should  trust  her  with  this  secret. 

"I  shall  put  ten  pounds  on  him,"  she  announced. 

Rodney  laughed. 

"You're  a  real  good  sport.  I  knew  you  were  when 
you  backed  him  at  Omoana." 

They  talked  on  for  some  time  quite  contentedly. 


The  Accident— and  After  121 

Marsh  proceeded  to  tell  her  Nigger's  history  as  far 
as  he  knew  it;  of  how  the  horse  had  originally  become 
his  property. 

"I  don't  know  where  he  was  bred,  but  a  drover 
named  Healey— a  rotten  brute  with  horses— owned  him 
five  years  ago.  I  bought  him  because  I  felt  sorry  for 
the  poor  beast.  He  was  sound  enough,  but  he'd  been 
ridden  with  a  back  that  was  in  a  hell  of  a  mess,  and 
he  was  just  a  bag  of  bones.  Healey  was  very  fond  of 
knocking  him  over  the  head,  so  I  knocked  Healey 
over  the  head  one  day  to  show  him  what  it  felt  like. 
We  had  a  ding-dong  go,  but  afterwards  he  sold  me 
the  horse.  I  doctored  him  up  a  bit,  and  then  turned 
him  out  for  a  spell,  and  he  came  on  wonderfully.  The 
finest  bargain  I  ever  made.  I  wouldn't  part  with  him 
now  for  anything  any  one  could  give  me— he's  the  best 
friend  I've  got." 

Ann  promised  to  come  again  next  day,  and  to  bring 
him  some  books  to  read. 

"No  more  poets,"  he  warned  her.  "I'm  not  strong 
enough  for  poets.  And  no  sloppy  love  yarns.  Some- 
thing exciting." 

"All  right,"  said  Ann. 

Holmes  had  already  lent  the  invalid  a  few  books. 
Ann  knew  she  might  safely  commandeer  some  more 
from  the  smoking-room. 

In  the  distance  she  saw  the  little  girls  riding  home 
across  the  paddocks,  and  so  she  rose  to  go.  Dan  was 
moving  about  in  the  kitchen  at  the  rear  of  the  cottage, 
cooking  an  evening  meal. 

On  her  way  back  to  the  homestead  Ann  told  herself 
that  she  had  been  quite  mistaken  in  imagining  her 
feeling  for  Rodney  Marsh  was  in  any  degree  a  serious 
attachment.  She  liked  him— liked  him  tremendously. 


122  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

Ridiculous  to  have  allowed  herself  to  imagine  there 
was  any  sentiment  mixed  up  in  this  feeling  of  com- 
radeship. Already  she  was  looking  forward  very 
happily  to  visiting  the  cottage  on  the  following  day. 


Almost  every  day  during  the  week  that  followed, 
unless  prevented  by  her  duties  at  the  homestead, 
Ann  found  some  opportunity  of  seeing  Rodney 
Marsh.  Sometimes  she  only  looked  in  for  a  few  min- 
utes, but  on  most  occasions  she  stayed  for  the  best  part 
of  an  hour.  She  had  taken  him  a  varied  selection  of 
books,  and  found  him  by  no  means  so  ignorant  as  she 
had  at  first  believed  him  to  be.  He  was  not  a  "book- 
ish" person,  but  he  was  fond  of  reading,  and  often 
surprised  her  by  his  preferences.  "The  Nigger  of  the 
Narcissus"  he  read  three  times,  and  announced  that 
it  was  a  fine  book  written  by  a  fine  man.  At  the  end 
of  the  week  Ann  no  longer  argued  with  herself  as  to 
her  feeling  for  the  young  shepherd.  If  he  wanted  her 
to  be  his  wife  she  knew  that  she  would  marry  him. 

Holmes  had  often  told  her  that  Marsh  would  find 
no  difficulty  in  obtaining  the  managership  of  some 
station;  and  to  her  mental  vision  the  picture  of  the 
little  homestead  in  the  country  became  more  vivid. 

But  did  Marsh  really  care  for  her?  He  valued  her 
friendship,  she  felt  sure,  and  he  made  it  plain  that  he 
recognized  she  was— as  he  would  put  it— "a  cut  above" 
his  associates  at  Omoana.  Yet  in  this  he  was  not  dis- 
loyal to  his  own  acquaintances.  They  were  good 
enough  for  him— not  for  her.  He  did  not  discuss  Mrs. 
Bentley  beyond  remarking  that  she  was  "a  good  sort," 
but  that  as  she'd  struck  up  a  great  friendship  with 


The  Accident— and  After  123 

Hicky,  the  Omoana  "pub"  would  not  see  him— Marsh 
—very  much  in  the  future.  That  at  least  was  pleasant 
news  to  Ann.  It  was  quite  apparent  that  Mrs.  Bentley 
no  longer  possessed  a  proprietary  interest  in  the 
young  shepherd,  for  Rodney's  tone  was  certainly  not 
that  of  a  disappointed  lover. 

On  the  last  afternoon  before  the  party  from  Tirau 
returned,  Ann  sat  in  the  little  front  room  talking  to 
the  invalid.  His  knee  was  out  of  the  splints  now,  and 
he  had  been  up  for  an  hour  or  two  that  morning. 

"You'll  come  tomorrow?"  he  asked. 

"If  I'm  not  too  busy,  I  may  be.  Mrs.  Pratt  is  on 
the  sick-list  now.  She's  in  bed  today  with  a  cold  and  a 
slight  temperature.  I  see  myself  getting  the  breakfast 
tomorrow." 

"Can  you  cook?" 

"Not  very  brilliantly.  But  I  can  manage  toast  and 
bacon  and  eggs,  and  a  plain  dinner.  I'm  making  Mrs. 
Pratt  some  jelly  and  chicken  broth— I'll  save  some 
for  you,  then  you'll  be  able  to  judge  if  I'm  a  good 
cook  or  not." 

"You  can  do  everything." 

She  laughed. 

"I've  had  to  try  to  do  a  good  many.  My  father  was 
a  doctor  in  a  hard-up  suburb.  But  you  told  me  I 
should  never  make  a  sheep-farmer." 

"That's  a  man's  work." 

"Pooh!  Lots  of  girls  are  working  on  the  land  in 
England." 

They  wrangled  good-humoredly  over  this  for  a 
time,  and  then  she  rose  to  depart. 

"I  hate  your  going,"  he  said  abruptly  in  a  low 
voice.  Ann,  standing  close  beside  his  bed,  was  silent. 

Suddenly  he  took  her  hand,  and  turning  his  face 


124  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

on  the  pillow  held  her  open  palm  under  his  cheek. 
His  lips  moved: 

"I  love  you." 

The  husky  whisper  had  in  it  almost  a  note  of  pain. 
It  was  as  though  the  words  had  been  forced  from  him 
against  his  will.  There  was  the  sound  of  a  step  in  the 
passage.  Ann  moved  away  from  the  bedside,  as  Dan, 
the  Maori  cow-boy  and  cook,  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"I'll  try  to  come  tomorrow,"  said  Ann,  struggling 
to  make  her  voice  even  and  unconcerned. 

There  was  a  muffled:  "Thank  you,"  from  the 
pillow. 

Ann  nodded  to  Dan  as  she  passed  him  in  the  door- 
way, and  the  next  moment  she  was  gone. 


VII 

Disillusion 


i. 

WHEN  Dick  and  Vera  Holmes  arrived  with  Waring 
in  the  car  on  the  following  afternoon,  they  discovered 
Ann,  enveloped  in  a  large  apron,  busy  in  the  kitchen. 
Mrs.  Pratt  being  no  better  in  the  morning,  she  had 
telephoned  to  Dr.  Spencer.  He  pronounced  the  cook 
to  be  suffering  from  a  mild  attack  of  influenza,  and 
ordered  her  to  remain  in  bed.  Ann  and  Emily  be- 
tween them  had  managed  the  housework,  and  now 
Ann,  a  trifle  flustered  and  a  good  deal  flushed,  was 
wrestling  with  the  dinner.  She  had  not  been  free  for 
a  moment  all  day  to  run  along  to  the  cottage;  but  she 
had  sent  a  message  by  Dan  to  say  that  she  would  try 
to  come  down  as  soon  as  she  was  at  liberty  to  leave  the 
homestead.  She  made  some  tea,  and  took  it  out  to  the 
hot  and  dusty  travelers  who  were  seated  on  the 
veranda.  In  a  second  she  realized  that  the  barometer 
was  not  "set  fair"  as  far  as  Vera  and  Waring  were  con- 
cerned. Holmes,  too,  looked  worried  and  unhappy. 
Surely  something  more  than  the  mere  fact  of  the 
team's  having  done  badly  at  the  tournament  was  at 
the  root  of  this  general  depression.  "A  cheerful  trio!" 
thought  Ann.  And  with  Mrs.  Pratt  ill  in  bed,  it  was  a 
cheerful  outlook  for  the  governess,  who  seemed  to 
have  shouldered  the  responsibilities  of  the  household. 


126  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

But  Ann  carried  in  her  heart  a  glowing  secret  which 
no  worries  of  this  ephemeral  nature  could  quench  or 
dim. 

"Cook-general  now,  are  you,  Miss  Merrill?"  re- 
marked Waring. 

"I  suppose  some  one  will  have  to  do  the  work," 
said  Vera  sharply. 

"It's  hardly  Miss  Merrill's  job,  is  it?"  asked  Holmes. 
Vera  turned  on  her  husband  angrily. 

"Surely  as  long  as  I'm  mistress  here  it's  for  me  to 
say  what  Miss  Merrill  is  to  do,  or  not  to  do?" 

"Cooking  the  dinner . . ." 

"Who  asked  her  to  cook  the  dinner?" 

"Oh,  do  let  me  finish  it,"  said  Ann.  "I  love  trying 
my  hand  at  the  cooking.  It  may  not  be  very  grand,  but 
it'll  be  eatable." 

"You're  looking  very  well  on  it  at  any  rate,"  ob- 
served Waring.  "It's  always  a  treat  to  see  a  cheerful 
smile." 

"Meaning . . .  ?"  asked  Vera  icily. 

"That  Miss  Merrill  looks,  if  possible,  more  charm- 
ing than  usual." 

This  was  the  first  time  Waring  had  ever  paid  her 
compliments  openly.  Ann  felt  the  atmosphere  grow 
still  more  electric,  for  she  knew  that  it  was  done  in- 
tentionally. Certainly  Mrs.  Holmes's  stormy  face  was 
anything  but  attractive  this  afternoon;  but  why  em- 
phasize the  fact?  It  seemed  to  Ann  that  Waring  had 
suddenly  grown  tired  of  Vera's  tantrums  and  intended 
to  make  that  plain  to  her.  The  little  governess 
hastened  back  to  the  kitchen,  and  busied  herself  with 
the  pots  and  pans.  She  was  on  her  knees  before  the 
oven  when  Waring  entered.  He  had  strolled  down 
from  his  own  room  in  the  school-house,  to  the  back 


Disillusion  127 

door.  Emily  sat  at  the  table  shelling  peas;  Vera,  ex- 
cusing herself  from  giving  any  assistance  in  the 
kitchen  by  saying  she  had  a  frightful  headache,  had 
gone  to  lie  down;  and  Holmes  was  in  the  smoking- 
room  writing  letters.  Ann  congratulated  herself  on 
the  presence  of  Emily,  when  Waring  appeared.  But 
Waring  was  too  experienced  in  the  gentle  art  of  phi- 
landering to  find  any  difficulty  in  removing  obstacles. 
He  removed  Emily. 

"I've  lost  my  silver  cigarette  case,"  he  said  to  her. 
"It's  probably  dropped  behind  the  cushions  of  the 
car.  Just  run  down  to  the  garage  and  have  a  look, 
will  you?  I'll  give  you  five  shillings  if  you  find  it." 

"She's  busy,"  said  Ann,  sharply. 

"I'll  take  on  her  job,"  returned  Waring  coolly. 
"Off  you  go,  Emily." 

Emily  went. 

"She'll  be  some  time  searching."  He  took  the  case 
from  his  pocket.  "Do  you  mind  if  I  smoke?" 

"Not  a  bit." 

"One  keeps  one's  head  better  smoking,  and  I  want 
to  talk  to  you." 

"I  don't  want  to  listen.  And  if  you  stay  here  you've 
promised  to  do  Emily's  job." 

"All  right."  He  walked  over  to  the  table,  and 
picked  up  a  green  pod.  Then  he  threw  it  down  im- 
patiently. "No,  let  them  wait.  I've  thought  of  you 
every  minute  of  the  time  I've  been  away." 

"Even  during  the  polo?"  asked  Ann. 

She  was  endeavoring  to  treat  the  situation  lightly, 
but  she  was  more  than  a  little  disturbed.  He  disre- 
garded her  interruption. 

"No  girl  has  ever  had  the  effect  on  me  that  you 
have.  It's  the  damned  detached  air  of  you,  I  think.  Do 


128  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

you  imagine  I  don't  know  that  under  that  cool  little 
manner  of  yours  there's  fire?  I  can't  be  in  a  room  two 
minutes  with  you  without  wanting  to  kiss  you." 

He  came  a  step  nearer  to  her.  Ann  still  held  the 
sizzling  meat  dish.  "No  man  can  attempt  to  kiss  a 
woman  who  holds  a  pan  of  boiling  fat  in  her  hands," 
she  reflected  thankfully. 

"Don't  make  me  upset  the  mutton,"  she  remarked 
calmly.  "Go  on  shelling  the  peas." 

"Very  well— perhaps  it's  wiser.  We  know  the  prov- 
erb about  idle  hands." 

Ann  couldn't  hold  the  meat  dish  for  ever,  but  she 
now  began  an  interminable  basting  of  the  joint.  It 
was  a  most  ridiculous  situation,  and  yet  she  knew  that 
the  real  and  vital  moments  of  life  often  occur  at 
curiously  incongruous  periods.  They  do  not  wait  for 
the  stage  to  be  set— the  scene  rehearsed. 

"You've  come  to  mean  more  to  me  than  any  woman 
I've  ever  known,"  he  went  on.  "Kissing  you  that 
night  sent  me  mad.  Will  you  marry  me?" 

Ann  was  so  intensely  astonished  at  this  abrupt  pro- 
posal, that  she  narrowly  escaped  burning  herself  with 
the  basting  spoon;  but  she  still  had  sufficient  com- 
mand over  her  voice  to  answer  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone: 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't." 

"Why  can't  you?" 

"I  don't  love  you." 

"You  let  me  kiss  you." 

"I  daresay  you've  kissed  quite  a  number  of  people 
you  didn't  love." 

"Have  you?" 

"Not  a  number.  Three  to  be  accurate." 

"And  I'm  one  of  them?" 


Disillusion  129 

"Yes." 

"You're  the  first  woman  I've  ever  asked  to  be  my 
wife." 

"I  don't  know  what  I've  don^  to  deserve  this  dis- 
tinction," she  remarked  dryly. 

He  came  towards  her  again. 

"We  won't  discuss  the  distinction  of  it— but  at  least 
from  a  common-sense  point  of  view  it's  worth  think- 
ing about.  Kopu  is  one  of  the  best  stations  on  the 
coast,  and  it  isn't  mortgaged  like  most  of  them." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"Do  you  really  want  me  to  look  at  it  from  the 
standpoint  of  common  sense?  To  marry  you  for  your 
money?" 

"I  want  you  to  marry  me  for  whatever  reason  you 
choose.  I'll  make  you  love  me  afterwards." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No.  It's  no  use  talking.  I  can't." 

"That's  final?" 

"Quite  final." 

"Very  well.  Tomorrow  I'm  leaving  for  Wairiri,  and 
going  on  to  Australia.  But  that  doesn't  mean  that  I'm 
giving  up  hope.  I  shall  be  away  for  three  months.  But 
they'll  forward  letters  from  Kopu,  and  if  you  change 
your  mind  and  decide  to  be  ...  kind  to  me,  you've 
only  to  write,  and  I'll  come  back " 

A  movement  at  the  inner  door  checked  him.  Vera 
Holmes  stood  there,  her  eyes  burning  in  a  strained, 
pale  face.  How  much  had  she  heard,  Ann  wondered? 
Not  more  than  a  few  words,  for  the  door  had  been 
closed  up  to  a  second  or  two  ago.  But  the  mere  fact  of 
Gerald  being  here  alone  with  the  governess  was  suffi- 
cient to  infuriate  Vera  in  her  present  mood.  When 


130  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

she  spoke,  however,  she  gave  no  sign  of  any  violent 
feeling. 

"For  goodness'  sake  don't  carry  your  flirtations  into 
the  kitchen,  Gerald,"  she  remarked  contemptuously. 
"If  you  want  to  make  love  to  Miss  Merrill,  take  her 
out  on  the  veranda,  and  I'll  finish  the  dinner.  But 
I  warn  you,  Miss  Merrill,  he's  not  to  be  taken  seri- 
ously. He  can't  help  making  love  to  every  woman  he 
meets.  It's  an  affliction,  poor  dear.  I've  known  him 
long  enough  to  overlook  it." 

"I  shouldn't  dream  of  taking  him  seriously  at  any 
time,"  said  Ann.  "He's  supposed  to  be  shelling  peas 
at  the  moment." 

"Where's  Emily?" 

"I  sent  her  down  to  the  garage  to  find  my  cigarette 
case  which  I  have  in  my  pocket.  I  thought  I  could 
talk  more  comfortably  to  Miss  Merrill  alone.  You're 
quite  right,  Vera,  I  was  making  a  mild  attempt  at 
flirtation.  Unfortunately,  Miss  Merrill  seems  more 
interested  in  the  mutton." 

"I  happen  to  realize  that  the  dinner  is  of  a  great 
deal  more  importance  to  you  than  I  am.  Very  unro- 
mantic,  of  course,  to  admit  it,  but  I  sadly  fear  it's 
true." 

The  tension  of  Vera's  face  relaxed. 

"Do  you  think  you're  ever  going  to  get  those  peas 
done  in  time,  Gerald?" 

"Not  unless  you  come  and  help  me." 

"I  can't  sit  here  in  the  heat— my  head's  awful." 

"All  right,  I'll  take  them  out  on  to  the  veranda. 
You've  got  to  do  your  share,  though— no  putting  all 
the  work  on  to  me.  Come  along." 

To  Ann's  great  relief  they  left  the  kitchen  together. 
Had  she  been  quite  truthful  in  all  she  had  said  to 


Disillusion  131 

Mrs.  Holmes?  Gerald  Waring,  perhaps  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  had  been  serious,  and  Ann  knew  it. 
She  hoped  the  Recording  Angel  would  make  allow- 
ances for  the  awkwardness  of  the  situation,  and  over- 
look her  lapse  from  strict  veracity. 


2. 

After  dinner,  Ann  wondered  how  she  could  escape 
for  a  few  moments  down  to  the  cottage.  She  must 
see  Rodney  again.  Ever  since  she  had  parted  with 
him,  those  words  of  his  had  been  repeating  them- 
selves in  her  happy  heart.  "I  love  you."  She  wanted  to 
hear  him  say  it  again— wanted  to  tell  him  that  all  her 
love  was  his— that  she  asked  no  greater  happiness  than 
to  be  his  wife.  And  now  she  realized  how  difficult  it 
would  be  unless  she  were  definitely  engaged  to  Rod- 
ney Marsh— to  absent  herself  from  the  homestead  in 
order  to  visit  him. 

But  this  evening  Fate  seemed  to  be  in  a  kind 
mood.  It  was  quite  easily  and  naturally  arranged. 
Dick  Holmes  was  going  over  to  visit  the  patient.  Ann 
asked  if  she  might  go  too. 

"I  told  him  I'd  make  him  some  chicken  broth. 
It's  ready.  I  could  take  it  in  a  jug." 

"Be  sure  to  bring  my  jug  back,"  said  Vera. 

Did  she  care  two  straws  about  the  jug,  or  was  this 
an  indirect  method  of  making  certain  that  Ann  was 
going  with  Holmes?  That  meant,  of  course,  that  Vera 
would  be  left  to  entertain  Waring  on  the  veranda 
homestead.  Again  Ann  reproached  herself  for  this 
suspicion.  To  be  jealous  of  admiration  openly  ex- 
pressed for  another  woman  was  characteristic  of 
Vera;  but  to  wish  to  be  continually  alone  with  a  man 


132  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

seemed  to  point  to  some  feeling  a  little  warmer  than 
friendship.  Angry  with  herself  for  such  a  thought, 
Ann  dismissed  it,  and  set  off  in  the  light  of  the  sunset 
across  the  paddocks  with  Dick  Holmes.  He  was  silent 
and  pre-occupied  during  the  walk,  but  Ann,  too,  was 
in  no  mood  for  conversation.  She  was  glad  that 
Holmes  was  with  her,  for  a  certain  shyness  at  meeting 
Rodney  again  had  seized  her.  Yet  when  they  were  all 
together  in  the  little  front  room,  shadowed  now  in 
the  fading  light,  she  found  herself  wishing  fervently 
that  Holmes  would  leave  her.  After  a  few  minutes 
her  wish  was  granted,  for  Holmes  stepped  out  into 
the  kitchen  to  have  a  word  with  Macdonald.  Now, 
she  and  Rodney  were  quite  alone,  and  Ann  knew  her 
heart  was  beating  painfully. 

"I'm  glad  the  knee's  so  much  better,"  she  remarked. 

"Oh,  it's  getting  on  Ai  now,"  returned  Marsh. 
"I've  been  walking  a  bit  today."  He  paused,  and  then 
went  on  abruptly.  "I've  been  wanting  to  see  you. 
I've  got  to— explain.  I'm  sorry  for  what  I  did  . . .  what 
I  said— yesterday."  He  was  speaking  with  some  diffi- 
culty. "No  man  has  any  right  to ...  to  tell  a  woman 
he  loves  her,  if  he  doesn't  mean  to  ask  her  to  marry 
him." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  Ann 
laughed.  But  she  was  glad  he  could  not  see  her  face. 

"Are  you  breaking  it  gently  to  me  that  you  don't 
mean  to  do  me  that  honor?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know  about  it's  being  much  honor,"  he 
replied,  "but  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  what  I  did  when 
I  haven't  any  intention  of  marrying.  I  didn't  mean  to 
say  it." 

"It  wasn't  true?" 


Disillusion  133 

He  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  but  Ann  could 
hear  his  labored  breathing. 

"I  don't  mean  to  marry,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Aren't  you  apologizing  rather  unnecessarily?" 
asked  Ann.  "You  seem  to  be  taking  it  for  granted 
that  I  should  accept  your  offer.  It  isn't  very  unusual 
to  visit  people  who  are  ill,  you  know." 

"You've  been  kind  in  coming,  but . . ." 

"But  I  mustn't  build  any  high  hopes  upon  your 
graciously  allowing  me  to  call  upon  you?" 

"You're  trying  to  show  me  I'm  not  good  enough 
for  you— talking  like  that." 

"Is  that  what  is  at  the  back  of  your  mind— that 
I'd  think  I  was  condescending  in  accepting  you?" 

"Nothing's  at  the  back  of  my  mind,  except  that 
I  don't  mean  to  marry." 

"Do  you  imagine  that  I'm  likely  to  be  broken- 
hearted at  your  decision?" 

"Oh,  hell!"  said  Rodney  Marsh  into  his  pillow. 

Again  Ann  laughed.  Well,  to  laugh  was  better  than 
to  cry;  and  if  her  laughter  hurt  the  man  lying  there 
beside  the  window,  she  didn't  care. 

"I  can't  very  well  decline  what  isn't  offered,  can 
I?"  she  said.  "But  I'm  sorry  if  anything  in  my  man- 
ner led  you  to  believe  that  this  explanation  was  nec- 
essary. Let's  forget  the  whole  episode.  Three  or  four 
men  have  already  told  me  that  they  love  me.  I've 
learnt  not  to  attach  much  importance  to  remarks 
of  that  sort."  Holmes  was  returning  along  the  pas- 
sage. "I  hope  you'll  like  my  chicken  broth,"  she 
added  brightly;  and  departed  with  the  honors  of  war. 
What  were  they  worth,  those  honors?  she  asked 
herself  bitterly,  as  she  walked  home  across  the  dark- 
ening paddocks,  beside  the  silent  Holmes. 


134  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

She'd  lied  to  Rodney  when  she'd  let  him  think  she 
didn't  care.  She  knew  that  she  loved  him,  as  she 
believed  she  would  never  love  any  other  man.  But 
must  she  accept  the  added  humiliation  of  his  knowl- 
edge of  that  fact?  Surely  some  rags  of  pride  might  be 
left  to  her.  She  went  to  her  room  soon  after  they 
reached  the  homestead.  She  meant  to  cook  the  break- 
fast, she  announced,  and  must  get  to  bed  early.  Vera 
protested  feebly,  but  Ann  was  firm.  She  enjoyed 
cooking,  she  asserted,  and  she  had  plenty  of  time  on 
her  hands  now  that  the  little  girls  were  not  having 
lessons.  Holmes  was  writing  in  the  smoking-room, 
and  Vera  remained  with  Waring  on  the  veranda. 
Ann  undressed  and  got  into  bed.  She  could  pretend 
to  be  asleep  if  Vera  came  to  her  room.  But  Vera  did 
not  come.  The  lights  went  out  in  the  homestead,  and 
Ann  remained  hour  after  hour,  wide  awake,  staring 
into  the  darkness. 

What  was  she  to  do  now?  She  couldn't  stay  on 
here,  seeing  Rodney  every  day— that  would  be  more 
than  she  could  bear.  She  must  get  away.  But  where? 
Take  another  situation  as  nursery  governess?  No,  she 
turned  with  distaste  from  the  idea  of  having  to  live 
in  such  intimate  fashion  with  any  family  again.  Yet 
she  must  do  something  for  her  living.  What?  And 
then  as  though  she  had  summoned  some  magic  to 
her  aid,  she  saw  herself  in  a  hat  shop  in  Wairiri. 
More  than  once  she  had  been  told  by  the  women  on 
the  coast  stations  that  they  could  get  nothing  they 
liked  in  the  little  town;  and  they  had  all  admired  the 
hats  she  wore.  She  had  enough  capital  to  start  in  a 
small  way,  and  she  could  get  some  place  with  a  room 
behind  or  above  the  shop,  in  which  she  could  live 
by  herself.  That  was  what  she  wanted!  To  be  alone. 


Disillusion  135 

Not  to  be  forced  to  act  a  part  all  day  for  fear  some 
one  might  guess  her  secret!  It  would  hurt  her  to  say 
good-by  to  Biddy  and  Jo,  but  one  must  make  up 
one's  mind  to  face  these  smaller  sorrows.  After  all,  if 
one  could  face  the  biggest  blow  of  all— the  desola- 
tion . . . 

No,  she  would  not  think  of  that!  She  had  indulged 
in  some  foolish  romantic  day-dream.  It  was  over. 
Some  day  she  would  forget  it.  Yet  as  she  said  that, 
she  knew  that  it  wasn't  true.  The  wound  would  heal 
in  time,  no  doubt— but  deep  wounds  leave  scars  for 
ever.  Ann  turned  on  her  bed  in  the  darkness.  She 
wouldn't  let  herself  think  of  what  might  have  been— 
she  wouldn't!  She  got  up  and  lighted  her  lamp- 
looked  for  a  book.  She'd  been  reading  something— a 
book  of  Arnold  Bennett's— where  was  it?  She  re- 
membered now,  she'd  left  it  up  in  the  school-room. 
Throwing  pn  a  wrapper,  Ann  stepped  out  through 
the  open  window  across  the  veranda  into  the  night. 
Why  hadn't  she  thought  before  of  leaving  her  room 
for  the  warm  star  lit  darkness  of  the  garden?  One 
could  at  least  breathe  here  in  the  open.  That  terrible 
constriction  of  the  throat,  the  sense  of  physical  op- 
pression, seemed  to  be  eased  a  little  by  the  night  wind 
stirring  the  trees  under  the  wide  sky.  And  the  restful, 
silent  hills  brought  some  vague  sense  of  distant  peace. 

On  the  grass  borders  passing  round  the  house, 
Ann's  steps  were  noiseless.  She  reached  the  eastern 
side,  and  mounted  the  path  towards  the  school-room. 
The  door  was  open.  She  entered  and  fumbled  at  the 
catch  of  the  torch  she  had  brought  with  her.  She 
must  be  quiet,  for  Gerald  Waring  slept  in  the  room 
adjoining.  Then  suddenly  she  heard  his  voice. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Vera.  You've  said  yourself  that 


136  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

it  must  end.  Think  what  it  would  mean  if  Dick 
knew." 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  woman  sobbing. 

Ann  stepped  back  from  the  school-room,  and  fled 
down  the  pathway  towards  the  house. 


VIII 

Good-by  to  Tirau 


i. 

WARING  left  early  in  the  morning.  He  endeavored 
to  see  Ann,  but  she  eluded  him.  She  also  avoided  Mrs. 
Holmes,  and  spent  her  day  with  Emily  furiously  at- 
tacking the  housework.  By  dint  of  much  hard 
physical  labor  she  was  able  to  still  the  turmoil  of  her 
thoughts,  and  so  get  through  the  dreadful  day. 

She  had  found  the  answer  to  all  her  questions,  but 
heart-sick  and  wretched,  endeavored  to  shut  out  from 
memory  the  knowledge  she  had  gained.  Life  had 
seemed  cruel  after  her  interview  with  Rodney.  Now 
it  appeared  to  be  evil  also.  She  was  conscious  of  a 
great  pity  for  I)ick  Holmes,  and  for  the  little  girls, 
but  she  knew  that  nothing  now— even  apart  from  the 
question  of  meeting  Rodney  again— would  induce  her 
to  stay  at  Tirau. 

During  the  evening  she  told  Vera  Holmes  of  her 
decision  to  leave. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Vera  sharply. 

In  her  tone  Ann  read  a  thought  of  Waring  and  his 
visit  to  Australia. 

"To  Wairiri,"  she  answered.  "I  believe  there's  an 
opening  there  for  a  hat  shop.  I've  decided  to  start 
one." 

She  could  not  bring  herself  to  discuss  her  plans 


138  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

with  Mrs.  Holmes.  But  in  truth  the  latter  seemed  to 
display  very  little  interest  in  them,  now  that  she  was 
assured  as  to  Ann's  intentions.  Her  eyes  were  darkly 
ringed,  but  vague,  as  though  oblivious  of  outward 
things,  and  seeing  only  some  vision  of  despair. 

"You'll  stay  here  until  the  end  of  the  week?" 

"Of  course  I  will  if  you  wish  me  to." 

"I  shall  have  to  go  into  Wairiri  myself  tomorrow— 
I'll  make  arrangements  for  Biddy  and  Jo  to  go  to 
Mrs.  Marley's  school  there.  She  often  has  children  in 
the  holidays,  so  they  could  go  at  once.  I  don't  feel 
well  enough  to  manage  them  myself  at  present." 

Mrs.  Pratt  was  better,  but  her  temperature  was  still 
above  normal,  and  she  was  not  yet  able  to  leave  her 
room.  Consequently,  Ann  cooked  the  breakfast  again 
next  morning,  and  fell  upon  the  housework  with  the 
same  fierce  concentration.  It  was  at  least  a  blessing  to 
be  able  to  tire  one's  self  out  physically  in  this  way. 
She  was  alone  with  Emily,  for  Mrs.  Holmes  had  been 
motored  into  Omoana  by  Pratt,  after  an  early  break- 
fast, in  order  to  catch  the  service  car  to  Wairiri.  When 
Pratt  returned  he  came  up  to  the  house  with  a  note. 
Emily  took  it  from  him  at  the  back  door,  and  brought 
it  in  to  Ann.  It  was  addressed  to  Holmes,  and  it  was 
in  Vera's  big,  bold  handwriting. 

Ann  supposed  that  it  was  a  message  letting  Dick 
Holmes  know  what  time  Vera  wished  to  be  met  in  the 
evening.  The  service  car  from  Wairiri  usually  reached 
Omoana  between  four  and  five.  But  Holmes  was 
away  at  the  back  of  the  run,  and  Ann  put  the  note  on 
the  table  in  the  smoking-room,  to  await  his  return. 

He  did  not  get  back  to  lunch,  and  it  was  only  when 
she  was  giving  the  little  girls  their  tea  that  she  heard 
his  step  on  the  veranda.  He  moved  into  the  smoking- 


Good-by  to  Tirau  139 

room,  and  after  a  few  minutes  Ann  went  in  to  draw 
his  attention  to  the  note.  But  he  had  already  opened 
it.  He  was  standing  with  it  in  his  hand. 

"Shall  I  have  dinner  ready  at  the  usual  time?" 
asked  Ann.  "Or  will  Mrs.  Holmes  be  home  later?" 

"She's  not  coming  back  tonight,"  returned  Holmes. 
He  said  no  more,  and  Ann  returned  to  the  dining- 
room.  But  when  dinner  was  ready,  she  went  again  to 
call  him.  He  was  sitting  at  his  writing-desk,  and  closed 
a  drawer  quickly  as  she  entered. 

"Will  you  come  in  to  dinner,  Mr.  Holmes?" 

"I  don't  want  any,"  he  answered,  without  turning 
to  her.  "Have  yours,  will  you?" 

"Don't  you  feel  well?  You're  not  getting  Mrs. 
Pratt's  'flu,  are  you?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  How  is  she?" 

"Better  tonight.  She  hasn't  really  been  very  ill. 
She's  getting  up  tomorrow." 

"Good." 

"Can't  I  get  you  anything?" 

"No  thanks.  I'll  take  some  aspirin  and  go  to  bed." 

But  he  didn't  go  to  bed.  He  had  not  moved  from 
the  smoking-room  when  Ann,  worn  out  after  her 
sleepless  night  and  hard  day's  work,  was  herself  think- 
ing of  retiring.  The  little  girls  had  long  ago  dropped 
off.  The  whole  house  was  quiet.  What  ought  she  to 
do?  Something  in  that  note  had  disturbed  Dick 
Holmes  profoundly.  What  was  it?  Ann  didn't  dare  to 
think.  But  she  resolved  that  she  would  go  again  to  the 
smoking-room  and  see  what  was  happening.  Dick 
Holmes  was  still  sitting  where  she  had  left  him  two 
hours  previously,  but  the  drawer  of  his  desk  was  open, 
and  something— a  small  shining  object— lay  at  his 


140  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

right  hand.  He  pulled  a  paper  over  it,  but  not  before 
Ann  had  seen  what  it  was. 

"I  can't  go  to  bed  if  I  know  you're  still  sitting 
here,"  said  Ann,  trying  to  speak  lightly.  "Do  go  to 
your  room  now,  Mr.  Holmes,  please." 

"All  right." 

He  rose,  and  to  Ann's  relief  pushed  the  hidden  ob- 
ject into  the  drawer,  and  turned  the  key  upon  it. 

"I'm  going  to  bring  you  some  hot  whisky  and 
lemon.  I  don't  want  another  'flu  patient  on  my 
hands." 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  turned  and  faced  her,  attempt- 
ing a  smile.  His  face  was  ghastly. 

"You  don't  look  all  right.  Go  straight  to  your 
room.  I'll  turn  out  the  lamp  here." 

"For  a  small  woman,  you're  exceedingly  auto- 
cratic." 

"Small  women  always  are." 

She  had  moved  to  the  desk,  and  without  his  notic- 
ing her  movement,  she  quietly  removed  the  keys.  She 
felt  easier  now  that  she  had  them  concealed  in  her 
hand. 

"Please,  Mr.  Holmes,  go  to  bed— at  once." 

He  smiled  again. 

"Waste  of  time  arguing  with  a  woman.  She's  bound 
to  get  her  own  way  in  the  end."  He  lighted  two 
candles  standing  on  a  side  table.  "I'm  quite  capable 
of  putting  out  the  light,  you  know." 

"I'll  do  it." 

She  extinguished  the  lamp,  and  each  holding  a 
lighted  candle  they  moved  out  into  the  hall. 

The  kettle  on  the  stove  was  still  boiling.  Ann 
mixed  the  whisky  and  lemon,  and  brought  it  to  his 


Good-by  to  Tirau  141 

door.  He  was  in  his  pajamas  when  he  took  the  glass 
from  her. 

But  Ann  herself  did  not  get  into  bed  until  the  win- 
dow of  his  bedroom  was  in  darkness.  All  safe  for  to- 
night at  any  rate! 

The  drawer  in  which  that  shining  object  lay  was 
safely  locked,  and  the  keys  were  under  Ann's  pillow. 

2. 

But  at  about  three  o'clock  she  woke  with  a  start. 
A  light  was  shining  across  the  veranda  from  Dick 
Holmes's  room.  Ann  could  see  it  through  her  open 
french  window.  She  jumped  out  of  bed,  and  seized 
her  wrapper.  On  the  blind  of  the  bay  window  there 
was  a  shadow— the  shadow  of  a  man  holding  some- 
thing in  his  hand! 

What  a  fool  she'd  been!  Locks  could  be  forced. 

She  flew  along  the  passage,  and  without  waiting  to 
knock  at  his  door  she  entered. 

He  turned  and  faced  her,  still  holding  the  revolver 
in  his  hand. 

"No,  Mr.  Holmes,"  she  said  quietly,  "you're  not 
going  to  do  that." 

He  was  too  amazed  to  resist,  as  she  walked  over  and 
took  the  revolver  from  him.  He  stared  at  her  for  a 
moment,  and  then  sank  into  a  chair  beside  the  bed 
with  his  two  hands  covering  his  face.  Ann  put  the  re- 
volver down  on  the  dressing-table,  and  came  and 
knelt  beside  him. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said.  "Tell  me." 

"I'm  ruined,"  he  said  in  a  husky  whisper.  "And 
Vera's  . . .  gone." 

But  as  she  asked  the  question  she  felt  that  she  al- 


142  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

ready  knew  the  answer.  Waring  was  leaving  for  Aus- 
tralia! 

"On  to  Hawkeston  from  Wairiri— today.  I  don't 
know  what  she  means  to  do  afterwards.  But  she'll 
never  come  back.  She  said  so  in  her  letter.  She  wants 
her  freedom.  Only  divorce ...  or  death  will  give  her 
that." 

"Does  she  know  you're  ruined?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  think  so.  The  bank's  foreclosing.  I  only 
heard  it  after  the  tournament.  I  thought  I  could 
worry  through  somehow  in  spite  of  the  bad  luck  at 
shearing.  But  I  couldn't  raise  money  anywhere.  She 
has  a  little  of  her  own." 

"Surely  if  she  knew  . . .  she  couldn't  leave  you. . . ." 

"What  good  can  she  do?  And  do  you  think  I  want 
to  bring  her  back  by  whining  out  a  hard-luck  story 
when  I  know  she'd  rather  give  up  Biddy  and  Jo  than 
live  with  me  again?" 

"But  Mr.  Waring . . ." 

"I  can't  drag  Gerald  into  it.  He's  a  good  pal,  and 
he's  well  off.  He'd  probably  do  what  he  could  to 
finance  me,  but  he  isn't  made  of  money,  and  I'm  not 
going  to  be  a  burden  to  my  friends." 

Ann  sat  back  and  looked  at  him,  and  suddenly  she 
realized  that  the  truth,  as  she  knew  it,  was  hidden 
from  him.  He  did  not  connect  Vera's  flight  with  War- 
ing. Well,  he  was  spared  something  at  least,  and  Ann 
was  resolved  that  as  long  as  possible  she  would  shield 
him  from  all  knowledge  of  that  secret. 

"What  good  would  you  have  done  by  using . . . 
that?" 

She  pointed  across  to  the  dressing-table. 

"It  would  be  an  end.  I  can't  go  on.  Vera's  been 


Good-by  to  Tirau  143 

everything  to  me.  I  can't  stop  loving  her  just  because 
she's  . . .  left  me." 

"What  about  Biddy  and  Jo?" 

His  face  worked  convulsively  for  a  moment. 

"The  insurance  company  would  provide  for  them 
—far  better  than  I  can  now.  My  policy  would  hold 
even  if  I . . ." 

His  hands  went  up  to  his  face  again.  His  shoulders 
moved  and  Ann  knew  that  he  was  sobbing— the  diffi- 
cult, hard  sobs  of  a  man.  In  a  second  her  arms  were 
round  him.  In  the  face  of  deep  human  suffering,  sex 
is  non-existent.  He  was  a  child,  and  Ann  a  mother. 
She  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  an  overwhelming, 
yearning  pity— an  urgent  desire  to  comfort,  and  to 
heal.  And  this  she  did.  She  had  no  clear  memory  of 
the  words  she  spoke— the  arguments  she  used.  But  at 
last  she  had  his  promise.  He  would  never  attempt 
to  find  that  way  out  again. 

She  went  back  to  her  room  in  the  dawn,  knowing 
that  at  least  she  had  accomplished  something.  She  had 
saved  their  father  for  Biddy  and  Jo. 

It  was  after  seven  when  she  was  awakened  by  a 
knock.  Mrs.  Pratt  entered. 

"You're  all  right  then,  Mrs.  Pratt?"  said  Ann  cheer- 
fully. "Able  to  be  up  again?" 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Pratt,  her  good-natured 
face  set  primly.  She  shut  the  door  behind  her,  and 
advanced  into  the  room.  "I  should  be  glad  if  you 
would  get  up,  as  I've  sent  Emily  back  to  the  cottage, 
and  as  soon  as  I  been  paid  my  wages,  I  should  like  to 

go-" 

"Go!"  echoed  Ann,  bewildered.   "Whatever  for? 

Don't  you  feel  well  enough  to " 

"It  isn't  any  question  of  my  'ealth"  said  Mrs.  Pratt 


144  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

emphatically.  "It's  the  goings-on  'ere  I  won't  put  up 
with.  No,  not  if  I  was  ever  so  poor  I  wouldn't.  Re- 
spectable houses  I've  always  been  in,  and  so  I  shall 
continue.  But  let  me  tell  you  it'll  be  my  duty  to  let 
the  mistress  'ear  of  what  'as  'appened,  and  what  I 
know  for  my  own  certain  knowledge." 

"What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about,  Mrs.  Pratt?" 
asked  Ann,  bewildered. 

"Young  ladies  going  into  gentlemen's  bedrooms 
without  so  much  as  a  knock,  and  with  next  to  nothing 
on,  in  the  dead  of  night,  and  staying  there  for  two 
good  solid  hours,  as  I  timed  it  by  the  clock,  is  more 
than  I've  been  accustomed  to  in  any  house  I've  been 
in  service  in,  and  at  my  time  of  life  and  with  a  young 
innocent  daughter,  it's  what  I  can't  stand,  and  what's 
more  I  won't." 

"Mr.  Holmes  was  ill . . ." 

"Then  he's  recovered  very  quickly,"  returned  Mrs. 
Pratt  dryly,  "seeing  that  he's  already  up  and  been  in 
the  smoking-room  this  hour  past  writing  letters." 

"Have  you  spoken  to  him  about . . .  about  this?" 
asked  Ann. 

"I  have  not.  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  mention  so 
indelicate  a  matter  to  any  but  one  of  my  own  sect, 
however  lacking  in  right  feeling  she  may  be.  And  to 
think  the  moment  the  poor  dear  mistress's  back  is 
turned  this  should  . . ." 

"Mrs.  Pratt,"  said  Ann,  earnestly,  "I  beg  you  to  be- 
lieve that  I'm  speaking  the  truth.  Mr.  Holmes  was 
...  in  great  trouble.  I  had  no  idea  of  anything  except 
to  help  him." 

"Just  now  I  understood  he  was  supposed  to  be  ill." 

"You  are  mistaken  in  what  you  think." 


Good-by  to  Tirau  145 

"That's  as  may  be.  I  leave  as  soon  as  my  wages  is 
paid." 

It  was  useless  to  argue  with  the  woman.  She  would 
never  be  convinced.  And  why  should  she  not  imagine 
what  she  did?  What  other  construction  would  any  one 
who  did  not  know  the  true  circumstances  put  upon 
the  case?  What  did  Ann  herself  believe  of  Vera? 

"Very  well,  Mrs.  Pratt,  if  I  can't  say  anything  to 
make  you  absolutely  certain  that  I  am  speaking  the 
truth,  you'd  better  go." 

Mrs.  Pratt  withdrew,  and  Ann  rose,  and  dressed. 

But  the  woman  was  still  sitting  in  the  kitchen  when 
Ann  went  out  to  see  about  the  breakfast. 

"I  thought  you  had  gone,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Pratt's  usually  kindly  face  looked  grim. 

"I  don't  stir  from  here  until  I've  had  my  wages," 
she  returned. 

"Haven't  you  asked  Mr.  Holmes  for  them?" 

"I  have,  and  received  the  reply  that  he'd  see  about 
it.  I'm  waiting  for  him  to  see,  but  I'll  have  the  law 
on  him  if  they  ain't  paid  prompt." 

Ann  went  along  the  hall  to  the  smoking-room. 
Holmes  turned  as  she  entered,  and  gave  her  a  rather 
touching  smile. 

"You've  been  no  end  of  a  brick  to  me,"  he  said. 

"Let's  forget  about  last  night,"  she  answered.  "Mrs. 
Pratt  doesn't  seem  to  think  she  can  manage  here  any 
more.  She  wants  to  go." 

"Very  well,  I  suppose  she  must." 

"But  she's  waiting  for  her  wages." 

He  looked  down  at  the  writing  paper  in  front  of 
him  in  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  said  slowly: 

"I  haven't  any  ready  money." 

"Couldn't  you  give  her  a  check?" 


146  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"The  bank  would  dishonor  it." 

"All  right,  don't  worry.  I'll  get  rid  of  her  some- 
how." 

She  went  swiftly  back  to  her  own  room,  and  got  out 
the  roll  of  dirty  notes  which  she  had  won  at  the  races, 
and  which  she  had  luckily  neglected  to  pay  into  the 
Savings  Bank.  With  the  money  in  her  hand  she  re- 
turned to  the  kitchen.  Pratt  had  already  removed  the 
two  small  baskets  which  Mrs.  Pratt  and  Emily  had 
brought  up  for  their  sojourn  at  the  homestead,  and 
now,  having  been  paid,  Mrs.  Pratt  herself  departed. 

Ann  gave  the  children  their  breakfast,  and  sent 
them  out  to  play;  then  took  something  for  herself  and 
Holmes  on  a  tray  to  the  smoking-room. 

"I  really  don't  want  anything  to  eat,"  he  protested. 

"Well,  I  shan't  take  anything  if  you  don't.  Be 
sensible,  Mr.  Holmes.  Didn't  Napoleon  or  some  one 
say  battles  couldn't  be  fought  on  empty  stomachs? 
Life  altogether  seems  more  or  less  a  battle,  so  if  we're 
not  to  be  defeated  we'd  better  eat." 

She  managed  to  coax  him  to  take  an  egg  and  some 
toast  and  to  drink  a  cup  of  coffee. 

"Now,  will  you  be  quite  frank  with  me,  and  tell  me 
the  position?"  she  asked. 

Apparently  the  bank  would  take  over  everything. 
He  and  the  children  would  be  practically  penniless. 
But  if  he  could  settle  the  children  somewhere  for  a 
month  or  two,  he  could  probably  get  a  job  as  manager 
of  a  sheep-station,  or  even  as  a  shepherd— he  would 
take  anything— in  the  district. 

'"Isn't  there  a  school  for  little  girls  in  Wairiri— kept 
by  a  Mrs.  Marley,  or  some  one?" 

"Yes,  but  I  couldn't  pay  the  fees." 

"Well,  I  can  for  the  first  three  months." 


Good-by  to  Tirau  147 

His  elbow  was  on  the  desk.  He  rested  his  head  on 
his  hand  so  that  his  face  was  almost  hidden. 

"How  can  I  allow  that?"  he  asked  huskily.  "I  be- 
lieve I  owe  you  your  salary  too.  Oh,  my  God!" 

"Mr.  Holmes,  for  heaven's  sake  don't  make  mole- 
hills into  mountains.  Let's  be  practical.  The  great 
thing  at  the  moment  is  to  settle  the  children  comfort- 
ably so  that  you  won't  be  worried  while  you're  ar- 
ranging matters.  Probably  things  will  turn  out  better 
than  you  think.  I  have  some  money  in  the  bank,  more 
than  I  need.  I'm  going  to  start  a  little  hat  shop  in 
Wairiri,  and  I  know  I'm  going  to  make  a  very  good 
thing  out  of  it.  It's  my  one  talent— millinery." 

"You  have  another." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Kindness,"  he  answered  quietly.  "You're . . . 
you're . . ." 

"Never  mind  what  I  am,"  she  said  hastily.  "That's 
settled  then.  Now,  could  you  take  me  and  the  chil- 
dren into  Wairiri  in  the  car  to-day?  I'll  be  responsible 
for  them  at  the  school." 

"But  the  term  doesn't  start  till  February." 

"Mrs.  Marley  takes  children  in  the  holidays.  I ... 
I  was  told  so."  She  instinctively  avoided  mentioning 
Vera's  name.  "Until  the  end  of  the  next  term  you 
won't  have  to  worry  a  scrap  about  Biddy  and  Jo.  I'll 
keep  an  eye  on  them  at  school.  That  gives  you  five 
months,  and  if  you  just  concentrate  on  your  own  af- 
fairs, I'm  sure  you'll  find  before  long  that  things  will 
be  brighter." 

With  his  hands  still  shading  his  eyes,  he  tried  in 
broken  words  to  thank  her,  but  she  would  not  listen 
to  him.  She  went  instead  to  pack  the  children's 
clothes. 


148  Wild,  Wild  Heart 


Down  at  the  garage,  Ann  was  stowing  small  suit- 
cases into  the  car.  The  children  were  playing  quite 
happily  in  the  sunshine  on  the  tennis  lawn,  and 
Holmes  had  gone  over  to  the  cottage  to  interview  the 
men  before  his  departure.  But  Rodney  Marsh  was  not 
with  the  other  station  hands.  That  morning,  for  the 
first  time  since  his  accident,  he  had  saddled  his  horse 
and  ridden  out  over  the  paddocks  at  the  back  of  the 
homestead.  He  reached  the  stockyard  slip-rails  as  Ann 
passed  into  the  garage.  She  did  not  see  him,  but  he 
had  caught  sight  of  her  as  he  rode  down  the  hillside. 
He  dismounted  to  lower  the  slip-rails  and  for  a  mo- 
ment he  stood  irresolute.  Then  as  though  making  up 
his  mind  suddenly,  he  hitched  his  bridle  to  one  of  the 
posts,  and  limped  into  the  garage.  Ann  started  as  she 
saw  the  sudden  apparition,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

Marsh's  formidable  jaw  was  set;  his  brows  drawn 
down  in  a  fierce  scowl. 

"Going  into  Wairiri?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"Who's  taking  you?" 

"Mr.  Holmes." 

"Oh,  by  God,  that's  too  much!" 

The  concentrated  fury  of  his  voice  brought  Ann 
round  to  face  him. 

"I  don't  understand  what  you  are  shouting  at  me 
like  that  for,"  she  said  coldly. 

"You  know  well  enough,"  said  Marsh,  coming 
closer  to  her.  "Isn't  what  happened  last  night  enough 
—without  this?" 

She  eyed  him  steadily. 


Good-by  to  Tirau  149 

"Mrs.  Pratt,  I  suppose,  has  already  been  spreading 
her  ridiculous  story.  I  didn't  know  you  gossiped  with 
her." 

"Pratt  said  . . ." 

"You've  had  it  second-hand  then,  have  you?  I've 
no  doubt  it  lost  nothing  in  the  telling." 

"Is  it  true?" 

"That  I  was  with  Mr.  Holmes  for  two  hours  last 
night— yes." 

He  gave  some  sound  of  inarticulate  rage.  Ann  paid 
no  attention  to  it.  She  went  on  putting  the  suit-cases 
and  bundles  in  the  car,  but  she  was  shaking  so  much 
that  she  could  scarcely  lift  them.  He  came  close  to  her 
and  took  her  arm. 

"Why  don't  you  explain  . . ."  he  said  thickly. 

"I  see  no  reason  to  explain  anything  to  you.  Think 
what  you  please.  Let  go  my  arm." 

He  let  her  go,  and  after  a  moment,  holding  by  the 
car  to  steady  herself,  she  faced  him  again. 

"You've  called  Mr.  Holmes  a  'white  man'— you 
know  he  is.  And  you  know  in  your  heart  that  if  I  was 
with  him  it  was  for  no ...  no  base  purpose.  You  are 
jealous  of  me,  that's  all." 

He  said  nothing,  and  controlling  her  voice  a  little 
more  she  went  on: 

"You  told  me  a  day  or  two  ago  that  you  loved  me. 
I  see  now  that  in  your  own  way  you  do.  But  you  love 
yourself  better.  You  won't  sacrifice  what  you're 
pleased  to  call  your  freedom.  Well,  I  don't  want  to  be 
loved  like  that— not  just ...  just  desired.  I  want  to  be 
respected,  and  trusted,  and ..."  Suddenly  her  voice 
broke.  "Go  away,"  she  said  passionately.  "I  don't  want 
to  see  you  any  more.  I  wish  I'd  never  met  you." 


150  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "I'll  leave  Tirau.  I'll  go 
droving." 

"I  don't  care  what  you  do!"  She  was  fumbling  with 
the  cases  now— seeing  nothing,  for  she  was  blinded  by 
tears. 

"Good-by,  then,"  said  Marsh. 

He  waited  for  a  moment,  but  her  back  was  turned 
to  him  and  she  did  not  speak.  He  limped  out  of  the 
garage,  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  away. 


IX 

The  Hat  Shop 


i. 

DURING  the  two  hours'  drive  into  Wairiri,  Ann  chat- 
tered quite  gayly  with  Holmes,  beside  whom  she  sat 
on  the  front  seat,  and  with  Biddy  and  Jo  packed  in 
amongst  the  luggage  in  the  back.  The  little  girls  ac- 
cepted this  sudden  removal  quite  delightedly.  The 
excitement  of  going  into  town  enthralled  them.  The 
thought  of  being  in  Wairiri  gilded  the  pill  of  parting 
with  Mummy  and  Dad,  and  Miss  Merrill.  But  they 
were  not  really  going  to  be  separated  from  her,  Ann 
told  them.  Mummy  had  had  to  go  away,  and  so  they 
would  be  much  better  at  Mrs.  Marley's,  and  Ann 
herself  was  going  to  have  a  dear  little  shop  and  sell 
hats.  They  could  visit  her  there  sometimes,  and  they'd 
have  picnics  together,  and  lots  of  fun.  Apparently  the 
party  from  Tirau  were  all  in  the  best  of  spirits!  The 
journey  down  the  coast  might  have  been  a  veritable 
joy-ride.  At  any  rate  the  children  believed  it  to  be 
something  of  the  sort.  They  drove  first  to  the  school, 
where  Holmes  interviewed  Mrs.  Marley,  and  there 
the  little  girls  were  left.  Now  came  the  dreadful  mo- 
ment for  Ann,  of  drawing  up  at  the  Imperial  Hotel, 
descending  with  her  luggage,  and  seeing  Holmes 
drive  away  in  the  car.  He  was  staying  at  the  club.  He 
could  always  run  up  a  bill  there,  he  remarked,  with  a 


152  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

smile  which  was  both  cynical  and  pathetic.  But  as 
Ann  followed  the  porter  up  to  her  little  bedroom  on 
the  first  floor,  she  knew  the  utter  loneliness  and  deso- 
lation of  the  shipwrecked  mariner.  The  hotel  was  a 
desert  island  where  she  was  stranded,  with  nothing  to 
look  forward  to,  nothing  to  hope  for. 

She  reached  her  room,  locked  the  door,  lay  down 
on  her  bed,  and  had  a  good,  solid  cry.  After  that,  feel- 
ing a  trifle  better,  she  got  up,  bathed  her  eyes,  un- 
packed, and  rang  for  tea.  Then  when  she  had  finished, 
as  it  was  still  early,  she  decided  that  she  would  waste 
no  time,  but  would  go  out,  find  an  estate  agent,  and 
see  if  she  could  discover  a  suitable  room  for  her  hat 
shop.  And  she  would  purchase  material,  and  spend 
her  evening  in  creating  one  or  two  Parisian  models. 
No  matter  if  it  were  weeks  before  she  found  her 
room— she  would  employ  every  available  moment  of 
her  time  when  not  searching  for  her  location  in  man- 
ufacturing her  stock-in-trade.  Love,  or  money, 
seemed  to  be  the  two  rival  interests  of  most  people's 
lives;  and  money,  with  the  majority,  apparently  took 
first  place.  It  never  would  with  Ann,  but  she  couldn't 
find  love— not  the  love  she  wanted— and  so  the  rest  of 
her  life  should  be  devoted  to  amassing  a  fortune.  She 
would  make  a  success  of  her  new  venture,  and  be- 
come a  rich  woman. 

That  being  settled,  she  jotted  down  a  note  of  her 
resources,  and  a  plan  of  campaign.  After  deducting 
the  fees  for  the  children— for  the  remainder  of  the 
holidays  and  the  first  term— she  would  have  about 
three  hundred  and  thirty-five  pounds  in  ready  cash. 
Not  a  very  vast  sum  with  which  to  start  a  large  and 
flourishing  business.  But  Ann  wasn't  going  to  think 
of  the  difficulties.  Suppose  she  lost  all  her  little  capi- 


The  Hat  Shop  153 

tal  in  the  first  six  months,  she  could  still  take  a  posi- 
tion as  nursery  governess,  or  lady-help.  No  woman 
willing  to  do  household  work  would  ever  be  stranded 
in  this  country.  "Lady-help"  was  merely  a  euphe- 
mism for  general  servant;  and  domestic  servants  were 
almost  impossible  to  obtain  for  situations  in  the  back 
blocks.  The  few  that  were  available  remained  in 
Wairiri  itself,  where  life  was  gayer. 

So,  at  about  four-thirty,  Ann  left  the  hotel,  and 
made  her  way  to  the  nearest  estate  agent.  Here  she 
discovered,  not  without  a  slight  feeling  of  dismay, 
that  she  was  unlikely  to  secure  two  rooms  in  a  good 
position  at  any  rental  less  than  four  pounds  a  week. 
She  took  the  address  of  one  or  two  places,  and 
looked  at  them.  But  they  were  not  suitable.  Then 
she  visited  the  biggest  draper  in  the  main  street. 
Again  she  received  something  of  a  shock.  Ribbons, 
silks,  brocades,  flowers  and  feathers,  were  nearly  three 
times  the  price  she  had  been  accustomed  to  pay  in 
London.  She  went  on  to  a  smaller  shop  and  here, 
where  a  summer  sale  was  in  progress,  secured  at  a  less 
prohibitive  cost  a  few  oddments  and  remnants  which 
might  be  useful  to  her.  She  also  purchased  some 
buckram  shapes  which  she  thought  she  could  re- 
model, and  had  them  sent  to  the  hotel.  By  this  time 
it  was  nearly  six,  and  all  the  business  premises  were 
closing.  Ann  returned  to  her  little  room  on  the  first 
floor  of  the  Imperial,  and  again  got  out  note-book 
and  pencil.  Two  hundred  a  year  for  rent,  and  fifty 
pounds  at  least  for  shop  fittings  and  furnishing.  That 
left  her  less  than  one  hundred  for  her  stock  and  her 
living  expenses  for  the  year.  It  didn't  seem  an  alto- 
gether promising  outlook;  but  Ann  refused  to  be 
discouraged,  and  she  set  to  work  at  once  on  one  of 


154  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

the  hats,  and  continued  sewing  busily  until  the  gong 
sounded  for  dinner,  and  she  made  her  way  down  to 
the  dining-room. 

She  was  just  finishing  her  fish  when  she  looked  up 
to  see  Ralston  and  his  wife,  and  Nell  Brunton,  enter 
the  room.  Mrs.  Ralston  caught  sight  of  her,  nodded, 
and  then  crossed  to  her  table. 

"What  are  you  doing  here  all  by  yourself?"  she 
asked.  "Taking  a  holiday?" 

"Not  exactly,"  said  Ann.  "Mrs.  Holmes  hasn't 
been  very  well,  and  has  gone  away  for  a  trip.  The 
children  are  at  Mrs.  Marley's." 

Edith  Ralston  looked  surprised. 

"Rather  sudden,  wasn't  it?  Vera  never  said  any- 
thing about  going  away  during  the  tournament." 

"She  always  makes  up  her  mind  quickly,"  replied 
Ann. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do?  Shall  you  be  re- 
turning to  Tirau  later?" 

Ann  shook  her  head. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  thinking  of  starting  a 
hat  shop." 

"Here?  In  Wairiri?" 

"Yes.  Do  you  think  there's  an  opening  for  one?" 

"Rather!  You'll  make  your  fortune,  I  expect." 

Ann  laughed. 

"That's  what  I'm  aiming  at.  But  I  find  expenses 
—rent  and  things— much  higher  than  I  thought  they 
would  be." 

"Will  your  shop  be  open  before  Race  Week?" 

"I  don't  know  when  that  is." 

"The  Wairiri  Jockey  Club  has  a  two  days'  meeting 
at  the  end  of  this  month,  and  the  Turf  Club  another 


The  Hat  Shop  155 

day  early  in  February.  Oh,  for  goodness'  sake  have 
some  pretty  hats  for  us,  for  the  races." 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Ann. 

"Don't  forget  to  send  me  a  card  before  your  open- 
ing day.  We  go  home  tomorrow— Bill  and  I— Nell's 
staying  on  for  a  week  with  the  Harveys;  but  we'll  be 
down  again  at  the  end  of  the  month.  All  the  coast 
people  come  in  to  Wairiri  for  the  races." 

"Well,  tell  them  not  to  buy  their  hats  before 
they've  seen  mine,"  said  Ann. 

"Of  course  I  will— but  you  must  let  me  have  first 
choice,  you  know.  I  want  something  to  go  with  a  sort 
of  pinky  beige  dress.  I  wouldn't  mind  a  black— not 
too  big;  but  at  the  same  time  one  can't  wear  anything 
very  small  here  in  the  summer.  It's  too  hot." 

Mrs.  Ralston  began  an  animated  discussion  of  hats, 
until  she  saw  her  husband  signaling  to  her  from 
across  the  room,  and  departed. 

Well,  that  sounded  hopeful,  thought  Ann;  and 
finishing  her  dinner  as  quickly  as  possible,  she  went 
back  to  her  room,  and  to  the  study  of  Vogue,  and  one 
or  two  other  fashion  papers  which  she  had  bought 
that  afternoon. 

2. 

Within  two  days  Ann  had  secured  her  shop.  The 
rental  she  was  obliged  to  pay  was  two  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  a  year.  But  there  was  a  small  room  at 
the  back  in  which  she  could  live,  and  the  position 
was  good— a  busy  little  thoroughfare  running  at  right 
angles  to  the  main  street.  Two  doors  from  the  build- 
ing in  which  her  rooms  were  situated,  was  one  of  the 
largest  garages  in  the  town.  Most  of  the  country  peo- 
ple—her prospective  customers— used  the  garage  for 


156  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

their  cars,  and  consequently  would  pass  her  place  of 
business.  And  though  the  rent  was  bigger  than  she 
had  anticipated,  Ann  was  not  forced  to  sign  a  lease, 
but  took  it  for  six  months,  with  the  option  of  a  fur- 
ther tenancy.  One  of  the  greatest  advantages  in  her 
eyes  was  the  fact  that  the  rooms  were  in  a  newly-built 
block,  so  that  cream-colored  paint  work  and  dis- 
tempered walls  were  fresh  and  clean.  There  was  a 
basin  with  running  water  in  the  back  room,  and  a  gas 
ring.  Electric  light  was  fitted  throughout. 

She  was  alone  inspecting  her  new  domain,  the 
morning  things  were  settled,  when  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  shop  door.  She  had  already  taken  the  precau- 
tion of  tacking  sheets  of  brown  paper  over  the  lower 
part  of  the  window  facing  the  street,  so  that  whatever 
work  she  had  to  do  might  be  done  in  private.  Open- 
ing the  door  she  found  Holmes  in  the  narrow  hall 
outside. 

"I  tracked  you  to  the  agent's,  and  on  here,"  he  said, 
as  he  entered. 

She  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  they  stood 
together  in  the  bare  little  room. 

"I'm  off  back  to  Tirau  this  afternoon,"  he  said. 

"What  do  they  say  at  the  bank?" 

She  had  seen  him  for  a  few  minutes  the  night 
before.  To  neither  of  them  did  it  appear  strange  that 
she  should  ask  the  question  so  frankly.  The  last  three 
days  had  brought  them  strangely  near  to  one  another, 
and  Ann  knew  that  it  was  a  relief  to  him  to  be  able 
to  confide  in  her. 

"They're  behaving  rather  decently.  I'm  to  carry 
on  there  as  manager— for  the  present,  at  any  rate. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'd  rather  have  got  right  away— 


The  Hat  Shop  157 

taken  a  job  in  another  part  of  the  district— but  I 
know  it's  more  sensible  to  accept  their  offer." 

There  was  something  Ann  wanted  to  know,  but 
she  would  not  mention  it.  Money  affairs  she  could 
discuss  with  him,  but  not  his  wife.  She  wondered  if 
Vera  would  return— or  if  she  would  follow  Waring  to 
Australia.  Ann  was  convinced  in  her  own  mind  that 
it  was  not  at  Waring's  instigation  that  Vera  had  left 
her  husband.  She  had  been  driven  frantic  by  her 
lover's  wish  to  bring  his  intimacy  with  her  to  an 
end.  It  would  be  like  her  to  make  a  desperate  bid  for 
his  return. 

"Vera  has  gone  to  Wellington,"  he  said  suddenly. 
"McMurray  came  into  the  club  last  night.  He  saw 
her  on  the  Hawkeston  railway  platform  yesterday 
morning.  She  talked  of  going  on  to  Australia.  Of 
course,  McMurray  thought  I  knew ...  I  pretended 
I  did." 

He  spoke  in  short,  abrupt  sentences.  Ann  searched 
his  face  for  any  sign  of  suspicion.  Waring  had  gone 
by  way  of  Auckland;  and  Vera  to  Wellington;  but 
from  both  ports  steamers  sailed  to  Sydney.  No,  she 
decided,  he  still  did  not  connect  Vera's  flight  with 
Waring's  departure.  There  was  misery  in  his  eyes, 
but  neither  jealousy  nor  anger.  She  could  think  of  no 
comment  to  make  on  his  news,  and  after  a  moment 
he  went  on: 

"I'm  not  going  to  try  and  thank  you  for  all  you've 
done.  Biddy  and  Jo  are  better  at  Mrs.  Marley's  until 
after . . .  the  bankruptcy.  I'll  see  that  you  get  the 
money  back  as  soon  as  possible." 

"For  goodness'  sake  don't  worry  about  that.  Come 
and  look  at  my  premises." 


158  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

She  took  him  into  the  back  room  and  showed  him 
how  she  meant  to  arrange  everything. 

"If  you're  short  of  cash  at  the  start,  you've  got  to 
let  me  know.  I'll  raise  it  somehow." 

"But  I'm  not  short— and  I  won't  be.  I'm  going  to 
make  money." 

"What  a  good  plucked  'un  you  are." 

Ann  knew  a  sudden  stab  at  the  heart  when  he  said 
that.  It  was  the  phrase  Rodney  had  used! 

"Not  much  pluck  needed  to  devote  yourself  to 
money-making." 

"You'll  do  it  too.  I  don't  think  Fate  could  ever  be 
unkind  to  any  one  like  you." 

"I'll  try  to  believe  you're  right,"  said  Ann  smiling 
at  him  gayly. 

But  in  her  heart  she  knew  that  he  was  wrong. 
There  were  other  things  in  life  besides  money. 

She  opened  the  shop  door  for  him,  and  stood  for 
a  moment  in  the  entrance  hall  bidding  him  good-by. 
Under  the  iron-roofed  verandas  extending  across  the 
pavement,  they  were  shaded  from  the  hot  sunshine 
which  lay  in  a  flood  of  golden  light  on  the  roadway 
beyond.  They  could  see  the  bridge  to  their  right,  and 
the  blue  of  the  river.  Cars  and  carts  went  by  in  the 
street;  then  a  lumbering  wool-dray;  a  Maori  riding 
slowly  with  three  sheep-dogs  at  his  horse's  heels;  on 
the  pavement  a  few  leisurely  pedestrians  strolled 
along.  No  one  was  ever  in  a  hurry  in  this  little  town! 

Two  girls  passing  stared  at  Holmes  and  Ann  rather 
curiously.  Then  one  nodded,  and  Ann  recognized 
Nell  Brunton. 

"Good-by,"  said  Holmes.  "I'll  send  you  a  line  to 
say  how  things  are  going— but  I'm  not  likely  to  have 
much  news." 


The  Hat  Shop  159 

"I'll  keep  an  eye  on  the  children,  and  write  and  tell 
you  how  they  are." 

He  held  her  hand  closely  for  a  moment,  and  then 
he  was  gone. 

3- 

During  the  whole  of  that  afternoon  Ann  sought 
vainly  for  a  charwoman.  Apparently  they  were 
non-existent  in  Wairiri.  One,  who  asked  twelve 
shillings  a  day,  said  she  might  come  in  a  week's 
time.  But  as  Ann  wanted  her  floors  scrubbed  imme- 
diately, so  that  she  could  get  them  stained,  she 
bought  bucket,  soap,  and  scrubbing  brush,  and  leav- 
ing the  hotel  after  dinner,  went  down  to  her  rooms 
and  scrubbed  them  out  herself.  She  was  not  a  very 
speedy  scrubber,  but  she  was  so  thorough  that  when 
she  got  back  to  the  hotel  she  was  thankful  to  flop  into 
a  hot  bath,  and  was  so  tired  that  she  was  almost 
asleep  before  she  finally  tumbled  into  bed. 

But  to  be  doing  all  this  rough  work  when  her  time 
should  be  spent  on  making  hats  was,  Ann  knew,  be- 
ing a  penny  wise  and  a  pound  foolish.  She  was 
fortunate  enough  to  get  a  handy  man— newly  arrived 
from  London  and  so  not  too  superior  to  do  odd  jobs 
—the  next  day.  He  cleaned  the  windows,  stained  the 
floors  and  began  the  painting  of  a  few  old  wooden 
tables  and  chairs  which  Ann  had  purchased  cheaply 
in  a  neighboring  auction-room.  He  had  a  wife  too, 
who  was  willing  to  do  some  sewing.  Ann  blessed  the 
day  of  this  young  couple's  arrival  in  New  Zealand; 
and  congratulated  herself  upon  the  fact  that  they 
were  not  yet  "acclimatized"  enough  to  begin  their 
work  late  and  leave  off  early.  They  were  intelligent, 
hard-working,  and  willing  to  turn  their  hands  to  any- 


i6o  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

thing.  The  sort  of  emigrants  who,  in  a  few  years' 
time,  would  be  living  in  a  house  of  their  own,  and  in 
possession  of  a  neat  little  Ford. 

Mrs.  Hill  made  up  the  pretty  curtains  which  Ann 
got  for  the  shop  and  for  her  bedroom;  stitched  covers 
for  chairs  and  cushioned  lounge;  and  did  many  other 
necessary  sewing  jobs.  Ann,  in  the  intervals  of  pur- 
chasing cheap  second-hand  furniture  and  directing 
operations,  was  working  furiously  at  her  hat-making. 
She  visited  the  two  warehouses  in  the  town,  but 
found  the  millinery  there  commonplace  and  dowdy. 
She  was,  however,  able  to  purchase  a  certain  amount 
of  stock  which  she  could  alter  and  re-trim.  She  had 
determined  that  she  would  never  have  anything  but 
exclusive  millinery.  In  a  small  town  like  this,  boast- 
ing of  less  than  thirteen  thousand  inhabitants— where 
nearly  all  her  customers  would  know  one  another— 
she  must  never  repeat  a  successful  model. 

Mrs.  Hill  was  undoubtedly  a  "find."  She  was  neat, 
and  clever  with  her  needle,  and  under  Ann's  direc- 
tions was  able  to  do  a  considerable  amount  to  help 
with  the  hats,  as  well  as  the  plain  sewing. 

Less  than  ten  days  after  finding  the  rooms,  Ann 
was  ready,  and  prepared  to  begin  business.  She  had 
been  for  some  time  installed  in  the  back  room,  and 
now  had  forty  hats  ready  for  her  first  display. 

The  shop  with  its  black  floor  and  tables;  its  bright 
orange  rugs;  jade  green  wooden  chairs;  and  cretonne- 
covered  lounge;  old-fashioned  gilt  mirrors;  tall  jars 
of  flowers;  and  its  array  of  charming  hats  undoubt- 
edly looked  exceedingly  attractive.  Anticipating  a 
rush  on  the  first  day,  Ann  engaged  Mrs.  Hill  to  be  in 
attendance;  and  they  were  both  in  a  state  of  great 
excitement  when  they  opened  the  street  door  at 


The  Hat  Shop  161 

nine  o'clock  that  morning.  By  eleven  o'clock  their 
excitement  had  cooled  a  little.  Quite  a  number  of 
passers-by  had  stopped  to  look  in  at  the  window, 
where  six  of  the  prettiest  hats,  and  a  big  bowl  of 
roses,  were  arranged  against  a  background  of  care- 
lessly draped  jade  green  satin,  and  short  black  velvet 
curtains.  But  no  one  came  in.  And  when  Ann  heard 
two  women  exclaim:  "Aren't  those  roses  perfectly 
lovely!"  she  began  to  wonder  for  the  first  time  if  she 
had  been  unduly  optimistic.  By  twelve,  however, 
she  had  sold  her  first  hat— one  of  her  most  expen- 
sive models— to  a  fat  old  Maori  woman  in  a  bright 
red  and  blue  checked  cotton  dress.  In  spite  of  her 
disappointment  Ann  couldn't  help  laughing.  She 
could  imagine  nothing  more  incongruous  than  the 
dainty,  lace-trimmed  straw,  perched  upon  that 
untidy  black  head,  from  which  a  man's  felt  hat  had 
been  removed.  Ann  had  firmly  declined  to  allow  her 
first  customer  to  "try  on"  anything.  The  old  Maori 
nodded  good-naturedly:  pointed  to  the  pink  hat, 
said:  "I  have  him.  How  much?"  produced  three 
pound  notes  and  three  shillings,  paid  for  the  hat, 
put  it  on  her  head,  and  walked  out  carrying  the 
battered  felt— which  she  had  refused  to  allow  Ann 
to  wrap  up— in  her  hand. 

"Perhaps  that  means  luck,"  said  Mrs.  Hill.  "Like 
a  black  cat." 

"But  she  wasn't  black,"  objected  Ann.  "Only 
brown." 

"She  was  as  near  as  no-matter  black,"  said  Mrs. 
Hill. 

Neither  she  nor  Ann  was  wasting  time.  They 
were  both  stitching  industriously  at  straw  and  rib- 
bon. Later  in  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Hill  declared  that 


i6s  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

she  had  been  right.  They  sold  three  more  hats.  But 
this  was  so  absurdly  below  Ann's  anticipation  of  "a 
rush"  that  when  she  closed  the  shop  and  retired  to 
her  own  room  to  boil  her  kettle  for  "tea,"  she  felt 
more  than  a  little  disheartened.  However,  after  she 
had  disposed  of  her  solitary  meal,  she  resolved  to  go 
for  a  walk.  Fresh  air  and  exercise  would  help  her 
to  regain  her  courage.  After  all,  if  she  only  sold  nine 
hats  a  week  she  would  be  paying  her  overhead  ex- 
penses and  living,  meagerly  no  doubt,  but  still  living. 
The  trouble  was  that  at  the  moment  Ann  didn't 
really  much  care  whether  she  lived  or  not. 

She  walked  down  the  deserted  street  and  crossed 
the  river,  making  her  way  out  of  the  town  towards 
the  encircling  hills,  clear  in  outline  now  against  the 
sunset  sky.  Comfortable  looking  wooden  houses  with 
creeper-hung  verandas,  standing  in  bright-flowered 
gardens,  lay  on  either  side  of  the  road.  On  some  of 
the  lawns  white-frocked  girls  and  young  men  in  flan- 
nels were  playing  tennis.  Ann  heard  their  voices  and 
their  laughter  as  she  passed  by.  She  was  unutterably 
lonely,  and  not  a  little  sorry  for  herself;  but  she  knew 
that  self-pity  is  the  refuge  of  the  weak,  and  she  de- 
termined not  to  indulge  in  it.  After  all,  what  had  she 
to  endure  compared  to  the  suffering  which  poor  Dick 
Holmes  had  been  called  upon  to  undergo?  If  he  had 
courage  enough  to  face  the  shipwreck  of  all  his  hopes, 
surely  she,  who  had  no  more  to  lament  than  the 
awakening  from  a  foolish  romantic  dream,  could  try 
at  least  to  live  up  to  the  epithet  both  he  and  Rodney 
had  applied  to  her.  She  would  be  a  "good  plucked 
'un."  She  would!  So  after  an  hour's  quick  walking, 
she  returned  to  her  deserted  shop,  turned  on  the 


The  Hat  Shop  163 

light  in  her  room,  and  busied  herself  with  addressing 
dozens  of  circulars,  before  she  settled  down  again  to 
the  everlasting  twisting  of  ribbon  and  the  adjustment 
of  lace  and  flowers. 


X 

Smoke  Without  Fire 


i. 

DURING  the  whole  of  the  next  week  Ann  sold  only 
four  hats,  and  was  already  beginning  to  question  the 
wisdom  of  her  venture.  Her  visions  of  a  large  and 
lucrative  business  were  fading.  Apparently  money 
was  no  more  to  be  her  portion  than  love.  At  this  rate 
she  would  be  forced  to  retire  from  business  at  the 
end  of  the  six  months,  and  seek  a  position  once  more 
as  governess  or  as  lady-help. 

But  a  few  days  before  the  Wairiri  Jockey  Club 
Meeting  customers  began  to  drift  in.  And  Ann  found 
that  she  was  a  good  saleswoman.  The  old  adage  as  to 
honesty  being  the  best  policy  was  true  as  far  as  this 
business  was  concerned.  Ann  would  never  tell  a  hesi- 
tating purchaser  that  the  hat  she  was  trying  on  suited 
her,  if  Ann  herself  was  convinced  it  did  not.  She  lost 
one  or  two  sales  in  this  way,  but  she  gained  far  more 
than  she  lost.  She  had  an  eye  for  line  and  color. 
Knew  the  sort  of  hat  which  was  most  becoming  to 
the  wearer;  and  gradually  her  judgment  was  recog- 
nized. 

"Go  to  Ann!"  women  said  to  one  another.  "She 
never  tries  to  make  you  buy,  but  she  knows  what 
suits  you— and  she  can  bend  or  push  a  hat  brim  just 

164 


Smoke  without  Fire  165 

to  the  right  angle.  She  has  the  sweetest  things.  Not 
frightfully  cheap,  but  not  really  expensive." 

And  so  the  friend  advised  usually  "went  to  Ann." 
In  fact,  before  the  race  meeting  Ann's  stock  was  prac- 
tically sold  out.  All  the  shops  in  the  town  closed  early 
for  the  first  day's  racing;  and  behind  her  locked  door 
Ann  and  Mrs.  Hill  sat  manufacturing  a  further  sup- 
ply of  hats,  from  an  early  hour  in  the  morning  until 
after  ten  at  night.  That  week-end  Ann  sent  a  letter- 
cable  to  her  stepmother,  asking  her  to  despatch  a  few 
models  from  "Flora,"  and  a  quantity  of  material 
of  all  kinds,  immediately.  Her  stepmother  adored 
picking  up  bargains  at  the  sales— they'd  still  be  on 
in  London— and  she  knew  all  about  "Flora,"  the 
establishment  where  Ann  had  studied  millinery.  Ann 
sent  money  by  cable,  and  knew  that  even  with  the 
cost  of  the  despatch,  she  would  be  saving  a  consider- 
able sum  in  this  way,  as  well  as  procuring  something 
quite  different  to  anything  she  could  purchase  in 
Wairiri.  It  would  be  six  or  seven  weeks  before  the 
things  arrived,  but  they  would  be  winter  goods,  and 
in  time  for  the  winter  season  here. 

For  the  Turf  Club  Meeting  in  February  there  was 
not  such  a  rush  of  customers;  and  this  Ann  felt  was 
rather  fortunate,  for  to  tell  the  truth  both  she  and 
Mrs.  Hill  had  been  working  at  great  pressure  ever 
since  the  preparations  for  the  shop  had  been  begun. 

They  had  taken  over  one  hundred  and  twelve 
pounds  in  cash— Ann  had  no  book  debts— for  their 
first  month's  trading.  With  rent,  wages,  and  materials 
she  had  spent  barely  seventy.  Her  personal  living 
expenses  were  trifling,  so  that  in  four  weeks  she  had 
almost  paid  for  the  initial  outlay  of  fitting  up  her 
room  and  starting  her  business. 


166  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

Ann  realized  that  she  must  not  count  on  such  good 
results  during  the  next  month  or  two;  but  she  had 
secured  an  excellent  circle  of  customers,  and  had 
no  doubts  as  to  the  future. 

All  business  premises  would  be  closed  as  usual 
from  11:30  A.M.  for  the  Turf  Club  races— no  one  in 
Wairiri  thought  of  working  on  race  days— and  when 
Mrs.  Ralston  invited  Ann  to  go  out  with  them  in 
their  car,  the  newly-established  milliner  was  very 
pleased  to  accept  the  invitation. 

Her  establishment,  like  the  others,  would  be  shut, 
and  she  would  have  the  whole  day  on  her  hands. 

So  on  the  morning  of  the  Turf  Club  Meeting,  she 
put  on  her  prettiest  summer  frock,  and  a  special  and 
most  becoming  "model,"  and  made  her  way  down  to 
the  Imperial  to  join  the  Ralstons.  Motor  cars  full  of 
gayly  dressed  women  were  speeding  through  the 
streets;  motor  lorries  with  seats  roughly  arranged,  and 
placarded  with  printed  posters:  "To  the  race  course 
and  back,  35.  6d.",  were  proceeding  more  slowly  in 
order  to  pick  up  intending  passengers;  boys  were 
shouting  at  street  corners:  "Card  of  the  races— one 
shilling";  and  there  was  a  general  air  of  gayety  and 
expectancy  about  the  passers-by.  The  wide  roadway 
lay  hot  in  the  brilliant  glare  of  the  morning  sunshine, 
under  a  clear  blue  sky.  Ann,  walking  along  the 
veranda-covered  pavement,  past  the  line  of  closed, 
or  closing  shops,  was  glad  to  think  she  wore  a  wide 
hat,  and  carried  a  parasol.  It  would  probably  be 
about  90  degrees  in  the  shade  out  at  the  racecourse. 
She  was  looking  forward  to  a  cheery,  pleasantly  excit- 
ing day  after  the  grind  of  her  hard  work;  and  for  the 
moment  her  heart-ache  was  forgotten.  Then  sud- 
denly, with  a  rush  it  all  came  back,  for  advancing 


Smoke  without  Fire  167 

towards  her  along  the  pavement,  was  Rodney  Marsh! 
She  could  not  tell  whether  it  was  pain  or  joy  of 
which  she  was  more  vividly  aware.  Past  pain  of  mem- 
ory, and  present  joy  in  seeing  him  again,  were 
queerly  intermingled.  Would  he  stop  and  speak  to 
her?  Or  with  cool  nods,  would  they  pass  by?  Slowly 
they  drew  near  to  one  another,  and  Rodney's  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  her.  Simultaneously  they  halted— 
Marsh's  old  felt  hat  was  lifted,  and  then  they  were 
standing  face  to  face. 

"You're  off  to  the  races  I  suppose,"  he  remarked, 
with  an  elaborate  casualness. 

"Yes,  with  the  Ralstons,"  answered  Ann— equally 
casual. 

They  might  have  been  two  rather  bored  acquaint- 
ances meeting  for  a  moment  to  exchange  remarks 
about  the  weather. 

"Is  your  leg  all  right  again  now?" 

"Ai." 

Ann  longed  to  know  what  he  was  doing— if  he  were 
still  at  Tirau,  or  not. 

"How's  Mr.  Holmes?"  she  asked. 

His  face  flushed  a  little.  Her  question  brought 
back  too  vividly  that  last  scene  between  them.  But 
in  Ann's  mind— innocent  of  any  thought  of  wrong  in 
connection  with  Holmes  and  herself— that  incident 
appeared  so  trivial  in  comparison  with  the  moment 
when  Rodney  told  her  that  he  did  not  want  her  to  be 
his  wife,  that  it  was  almost  forgotten. 

"He's  getting  on  all  right,  I  think.  I'm  droving 
now.  On  my  own." 

"You  left  him?" 

"The  bank  cut  down  expenses  on  the  place.  I'd 


i68  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

have  stayed  on  for  less  money,  but  the  boss  thought 
I  shouldn't  do  that." 

All  was  well  again  between  them  then,  Ann  re- 
flected; and  she  was  glad. 

She  wondered  if  Rodney  would  apologize  now  for 
what  he  had  said  that  morning.  No,  he  wasn't  likely 
to  do  that.  It  was  difficult— almost  impossible— for 
him  to  admit,  in  so  many  words,  that  he  was  ever  in 
the  wrong.  Stubborn  and  pig-headed,  that's  what  he 
was,  Ann  reflected;  and  yet,  in  spite  of  everything, 
how  dear!  As  he  stood  before  her  in  his  old  dusty 
riding  clothes,  she  knew  that  even  though  she  might 
some  day  be  married  to  another  man,  just  the  name 
of  Rodney  would  make  her  heart  leap  in  her  breast, 
as  it  had  done  this  morning  when  she  first  caught 
sight  of  him. 

But  if  in  words  he  couldn't  express  regret  for  his 
past  conduct,  his  queer  brusque  manner— his  awk- 
ward greeting— was  an  index  to  his  thought. 

"Got  a  race  card?"  he  asked. 

Ann  shook  her  head.  He  pulled  one  out  of  his 
pocket. 

"Take  mine." 

"You'll  want  it." 

"I  can  get  another  easy  enough." 

"But  you've  marked  this." 

"Yes.  If  you  want  to  know  what  I'm  going  to 
back,  they're  there— use  the  tips  yourself  if  you  like- 
but  don't  give  them  away.  Of  course  they  mayn't  be 
any  good— they're  only  my  fancy." 

"Thank  you  so  much." 

They  stood  there  facing  one  another,  conversation 
at  an  end. 


Smoke  without  Fire  169 

"I'll  probably  see  you  on  the  course,"  said  Ann  at 
last. 

"I  don't  expect  so.  You'll  be  with  a  different  crowd 
to  me." 

She  had  no  reply  to  make  to  that,  and  she  couldn't 
stay  here  much  longer.  She  might  be  keeping  the 
Ralstons  waiting. 

After  another  moment  she  said  good-by,  and 
crossed  over  to  the  Imperial  Hotel. 


2. 

On  the  racecourse  Ann  was  enjoying  something  of 
a  succes  fou.  Her  prettiness  and  gayety  were  attrac- 
tive to  men  and  women  alike.  But  with  the  latter— 
who  were  for  the  most  part  very  warm-hearted  and 
hospitable  to  strangers— the  novelty  of  her  enterprise, 
and  the  authoritative  position  she  now  held  in 
Wairiri  as  the  supreme  arbiter  of  fashion,  created  an 
added  interest.  Though  quite  unaware  of  it  herself, 
Ann  had  charm.  Not  only  the  charm  of  an  attractive 
appearance,  but  the  charm  of  an  un-self-centered  na- 
ture. She  was  neither  gushing,  nor  shy,  but  perfectly 
natural,  and  quite  frankly  interested  in  her  fellow 
creatures. 

The  Wairiri  Turf  Club  Meeting,  Ann  found,  was 
very  much  like  the  first  one  she  had  attended,  but 
bigger,  gayer,  and  more  sophisticated.  A  brass  band 
played  on  the  green  turf  of  the  lawn  amongst  the 
flower  beds;  the  dresses  in  the  grand  stand  were  de- 
cidedly more  elaborate  than  those  worn  at  Omoana; 
the  totalisator  was  much  larger;  and  the  entries  for 
the  races  more  numerous.  But,  as  at  Omoana,  lunch- 
eon was  a  huge  picnic  shared  by  the  visitors  from  the 


170  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

coast  and  their  Wairiri  friends.  They  gathered  under 
the  shady  willows  at  the  back  of  the  stand  after  the 
second  race— hampers  were  brought  out  from  the  cars, 
and  everybody  was  very  gay  and  very  jolly.  Ann, 
being  young  and  of  a  naturally  happy  disposition, 
couldn't  help  enjoying  herself.  Rodney  was  on  the 
course.  She  had  caught  sight  of  him  in  the  distance, 
and  perhaps— though  she  would  not  admit  this  to 
herself— the  thought  that  she  might  see  and  speak 
to  him  again  before  the  afternoon  was  over  enhanced 
the  radiance  of  the  day.  But  as  the  shadows  length- 
ened, and  still  he  did  not  seek  her  out,  her  spirits 
drooped  a  little.  What  was  the  use  of  going  on  think- 
ing in  this  silly  sentimental  fashion  of  a  man  who 
had  plainly  told  her  that  his  affection  for  her  was  not 
a  serious  or  a  lasting  one?  Yet  how  could  she  help 
thinking  of  him,  she  mentally  defended  herself,  see- 
ing that  she  held  his  race  card  in  her  hands,  and  by 
steadily  following  his  tips  was  amassing  quite  a  little 
fortune?  And  her  feeling  was  not  that  of  a  stupidly 
romantic  schoolgirl.  With  a  quick  surge  of  passionate 
resentment  she  found  herself  wishing  that  it  were— 
that  it  might  be  the  ephemeral,  unreal  fancy  of  the 
jeune  fille,  instead  of  this  sure  and  bitter  realization 
that  Rodney  Marsh  was  the  only  man  she  would  ever 
love  in  quite  this  way  with  every  fiber  of  her  being. 
Her  thoughts  continually  hovered  about  him.  Whom 
was  he  with?  Had  he  followed  the  tips  he  had  given 
her?  and  if  so  how  much  had  he  won  today?  She 
herself  had  only  invested  one  pound  on  each  race, 
and  after  the  sixth  event  found  that  she  had  backed 
four  winners  and  an  outsider,  who  paid  a  big  divi- 
dend for  second  place. 

"How  on  earth  do  you  do  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Ralston. 


Smoke  without  Fire  171 

"It's  uncanny.  You  won  at  Omoana  too,  didn't  you? 
And  you  say  you  don't  know  anything  about  racing." 

"Beginner's  luck,  I  suppose,"  answered  Ann,  who 
was  already  nearly  forty  pounds  to  the  good  on  the 
day. 

It  was  just  before  they  had  afternoon  tea,  beside 
the  cars  under  the  willows,  that  Ann  came  face  to 
face  with  Dick  Holmes. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  doing  here?"  she 
asked. 

"I  came  to  find  you,"  he  answered. 

Nell  Brunton,  with  whom  Ann  was  walking, 
moved  on  to  another  group  of  friends,  and  Holmes 
and  Ann  were  left  together. 

"Stroll  down  to  the  rails— there— overlooking  the 
course,"  he  said. 

She  moved  beside  him  across  the  lawn,  a  little 
startled  by  his  appearance,  and  his  tone.  That  some- 
thing had  happened  to  disturb  him  was  very  evident. 
But  when  they  reached  the  rails  he  was  still  silent. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Ann. 

"I  came  down  this  morning  from  Tirau,  and  went 
to  your  shop,  but  it  was  closed.  They  told  me  at  the 
Imperial  that  you  were  here.  I'm  still  a  member  of 
the  Turf  Club  and  I ...  got  a  lift  out  to  the  course." 

"You've  had  news?" 

"Yes." 

"Nothing  has  happened  to ...  to   Mrs.   Holmes?" 

He  gave  a  sudden,  rather  bitter  laugh. 

"As  far  as  I  know  she's  all  right." 

"The  children  . . .  ?" 

"They're  as  fit  as  fiddles." 

"There's  something  else?" 

He  nodded. 


172  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"Is  it  important  that  I  should  know  what  it  is?" 

"Yes." 

She  waited  for  him  to  continue,  but  at  last  he 
said: 

"I  can't  tell  you  here.  It's  too . . .  too  difficult.  Can 
I  see  you  somewhere  this  evening?" 

"Come  round  to  my  rooms." 

"About  eight- thirty?" 

"Yes— that'll  be  all  right." 

"Have  you  had  any  tea?" 

"I  was  just  going  with  Nell  Brunton  to  the  Ral- 
stons'  car." 

"I'll  come  with  you." 

They  moved  back  across  the  lawn,  and  steered 
their  way  through  the  shifting  crowd  towards  the 
rear  of  the  stand.  Scraps  of  conversation  came  to 
Ann,  and  once,  wedged  behind  a  small  group  of 
smartly  dressed  women  who  had  formed  part  of  the 
luncheon  picnic,  Ann  heard  the  discussion  of  a  pend- 
ing divorce  case— whose  she  didn't  know. 

"Phil  is  in  Miller's  office— he  saw  the  divorce 
papers— citation  he  called  it.  She's  mentioned,  I  tell 
you,  as  co-respondent." 

"I  don't  believe  it." 

"It's  true.  Phil  told  me  today.  I  know  they've  often 
been  together.  I  was  with  Nell  one  morning  and  saw 
him  coming  away  from  her  place." 

Ann  and  Holmes  at  last  reached  the  parked  cars, 
and  the  unpacked  tea-hampers;  and  here  Holmes  was 
greeted  with  some  surprise,  but  with  decided  cordial- 
ity by  all  the  men,  and  most  of  the  women.  The  fact 
of  a  farmer's  failure  in  the  Wairiri  district  had 
always  the  effect  of  arousing  the  ready  sympathy  of 
his  more  fortunate  friends. 


Smoke  without  Fire  173 

And  yet  Ann  fancied  that  she  herself  was  not  as 
warmly  welcomed  by  the  women  as  she  had  been 
earlier  in  the  day.  Why  was  that?  Had  her  facility 
for  picking  winners  annoyed  them?  Or  did  they  dis- 
approve of  her  appearing  amongst  them  all,  accom- 
panied by  a  married  man  whose  wife  was  spending 
a  holiday  in  Australia?  Ann  told  herself  that  this 
attitude  on  their  part  would  be  absurd.  One  wasn't 
compromised  so  easily  by  chatting  in  a  friendly 
fashion  to  married  men.  But  suddenly  back  to  her 
mind  came  the  memory  of  Mrs.  Pratt's  indignant 
departure  from  Tirau.  Was  it  possible  that  such  a 
silly  story  could  have  suddenly  gained  credence 
amongst  the  Wairiri  women?  Ridiculous!  They  had 
too  much  common  sense.  She  dismissed  the  idea,  and 
told  herself  that  she  was  becoming  self-conscious, 
and  imagining  herself  slighted  because  she  wasn't 
again  treated  as  the  "star  turn"  of  the  party.  "Won- 
derful how  quickly  one's  head  can  swell,"  she  re- 
flected, with  a  little  smile  at  her  own  expense. 

So  after  tea,  she  strolled  again  with  Holmes  down 
towards  the  totalisator,  to  make  her  seventh  invest- 
ment. He  talked  of  the  children,  whom  he  had  seen 
for  a  short  time  that  afternoon,  and  who  appeared  to 
be  quite  happy  and  contented  with  Mrs.  Marley; 
mentioned  current  matters  connected  with  Tirau; 
and  remarked  that  he  had  received  a  very  decent 
letter  from  Waring  offering  to  help  him  financially. 
Ann  glanced  at  him  quickly  as  he  said  this.  No,  she 
decided,  there  was  still  no  suspicion  in  his  mind  with 
regard  to  Vera  and  his  friend.  What  was  it  then  that 
was  troubling  him?  But  she  would  not  ask  him.  He 
had  told  her  that  he  wished  to  defer  his  explanation, 
and  she  would  wait  until  the  evening.  Standing  to- 


174  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

gether  in  front  of  the  totalisator,  watching  the  crowd 
pressing  in  to  the  ticket  offices,  the  numbers  altering 
quickly  as  the  money  was  rung  on  the  different 
horses,  she  heard  Holmes  say: 

"Hallo,  Rodney!  How  are  things  going  with  you?" 

Ann  turned  quickly.  She  was  convinced  that 
Marsh  had  already  seen  her,  but  he  avoided  looking 
at  her  directly.  He  nodded  curtly  to  Holmes: 

"Well  enough,"  he  answered,  and  moved  away. 

Holmes  remained  gazing  after  him  in  a  slightly 
puzzled  fashion.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  a  trifle 
nonplussed  by  the  young  man's  abrupt  departure. 

"Rodney's  in  a  hurry  to  get  his  money  on,"  he  re- 
marked. "Let's  go  back  to  the  stand." 

On  the  lawn  the  band  was  playing  "The  London- 
derry Air,"  as  Holmes  and  Ann  made  their  way  up 
the  wooden  steps  of  the  grand  stand.  The  wide  circle 
of  the  hills  beyond  the  course  was  already  hazed  and 
purple  in  the  mellowing  afternoon  sunshine;  and  in 
the  midst  of  the  gay  crowd  Ann  felt  suddenly  the 
sadness  of  departing  day,  and  the  eternal  solitariness 
of  the  human  soul.  Nothing  ever  bridged  that  gulf 
between  one's  inner  self  and  the  outer  world.  Love 
could  help.  Love  between  man  and  woman.  That— 
in  its  highest  expression— could  enable  one  to  reach  a 
little  beyond  the  narrow  limits  of  one's  own  per- 
sonality—to become  to  some  extent  merged  with 
another's  soul  and  spirit.  For  the  rest— the  excitement 
of  pleasure— the  amusement  of  this  day,  for  instance 
—the  races,  winning  money,  dressing  up— what  were 
they  all  but  games  that  children  play?  Something  to 
pass  the  time  before  the  darkness  came.  They  weren't 
realities— only  the  things  of  the  spirit  were  real. 
Truth,  affection,  loyalty.  And  love  must  combine  all 


Smoke  without  Fire  w 

those  or  it  was  worthless.  So  Ann  sat  still 
by  Dick  Holmes's  side  while  the  seventh  race  was 
run.  She  won  once  more,  but  somehow  the  excite- 
ment of  collecting  dividends  had  lost  its  savor.  She 
would  not  see  Rodney  again  this  afternoon  she  felt 
convinced.  And  of  what  use  was  it  to  see  him?  Better 
try  to  put  all  thought  of  him  for  ever  out  of  her 
heart.  She  had  lost  interest  in  the  day,  and  did  not 
even  trouble  to  invest  her  usual  pound  on  the  eighth 
and  last  race.  But  even  here  her  luck  held;  for  the 
horse  which  Rodney  had  tipped  finished  nowhere. 
The  band  played  "God  Save  the  King,"  and  put  away 
their  instruments;  and  the  Ralstons  and  their  friends, 
together  with  all  the  race-goers,  prepared  to  make 
for  home. 

Ann,  busy  with  her  own  sad  thoughts  during  the 
drive  home,  did  not  notice  that  the  Ralstons  and 
Nell  Brunton  were  equally  disinclined  for  conversa- 
tion. But  when  they  put  her  out  at  the  corner  of  her 
own  block,  her  warm  little  speech  of  thanks  to  them 
for  their  kindness  in  taking  her  seemed  to  meet  with 
no  very  enthusiastic  reply.  As  they  drove  off  Ann 
suddenly  realized  that  her  popularity  had  been  ex- 
ceedingly short-lived.  For  some  reason  the  Ralstons 
were  not  as  friendly  at  the  end  of  the  day  as  they  had 
been  at  the  beginning. 

3- 

She  changed  her  frock,  then  made  herself  a  cup  of 
tea,  and  nibbled  a  small  slice  of  bread  and  butter. 
She  had  no  appetite  for  dinner,  and  decided  to  wait 
quietly  in  her  room  until  Dick  Holmes  arrived. 

What  was  it  he  wished  to  say?  If  gossip  concerning 


176  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

her  had  been  started  by  Mrs.  Pratt,  probably  it  was 
that  which  was  upsetting  him.  But  surely  these  idle 
rumors  of  scandal  were  not  of  sufficient  importance 
to  bring  him  forty  miles  down  the  coast  from  Tirau? 

Continually  her  thoughts  turned  back  to  Rodney 
Marsh,  and  each  time  as  she  realized  this  she  reso- 
lutely forced  her  mind  to  the  contemplation  of  her 
work— her  future  plans.  The  little  love  dream  was  at 
an  end;  and  it  was  far  better  that  it  should  be  so;  she 
told  herself  that  a  marriage  of  this  sort  might  very 
easily  end  in  disaster,  and  yet  her  heart  cried  out 
against  this  conventional  pronouncement.  Was  life 
to  be  lived  solely  by  the  light  of  practical  common 
sense?  Was  every  situation  that  was  difficult  to  be 
evaded?  Must  one  never  hazard  anything?  Never  take 
the  chance  of  a  fall?  Surely  that  would  rule  out  all 
adventure— all  romance. 

Again  she  pulled  herself  up  sharply.  As  Rodney 
Marsh  had  no  intention  of  asking  her  to  be  his  wife, 
these  reflections  were  superfluous.  Marriage  wasn't 
for  her— she  would  be  a  successful  business  woman, 
leading  a  busy,  independent  life,  and  finding  happi- 
ness in  her  work,  her  friendships,  and  her  books. 

She  gave  a  quick  little  sigh,  and  glanced  at  her 
watch.  Nearly  eight  o'clock!  Dick  Holmes  should  be 
here  directly— and  as  the  thought  came  to  her  a 
knock  sounded  at  the  outer  door. 

She  passed  through  the  shop  to  answer  it,  and 
found  outside,  not  Holmes,  but  a  boy  with  a  note. 
"Mr.  Holmes  told  me  to  bring  it  to  you,"  he  said,  and 
the  next  moment  he  was  gone. 

In  the  twilight  of  her  showroom,  Ann  tore  open 
the  envelope: 


Smoke  without  Fire  177 

"DEAR  Miss  MERRILL/'  she  read, 

"After  I  left  you  this  afternoon  it  struck  me  that 
it  would  be  unwise,  under  the  circumstances,  for 
me  to  call  on  you  this  evening.  Perhaps,  too, 
there's  an  undercurrent  of  cowardice  in  my  mind. 
It's  easier  to  tell  you  in  a  letter  what  I  have  to  than 
to  say  it  directly.  It's  so  damned  horrible.  When  I 
think  of  your  sweetness  and  your  kindness  to  me 
that  last  night  at  Tirau,  the  thought  that  you 
should  suffer  for  it  in  this  way  makes  me  wish 
you'd  never  taken  that  revolver  out  of  my  hand. 
I  can't  see  any  way  out  now  to  save  you  from  a 
situation  that's  infernally  unfair  and  unjust.  I've 
already  written  to  Vera,  and  told  her  the  whole 
truth  of  the  affair.  But  it  passes  my  comprehension 
how  she  could  ever  have  believed  such  a  thing  of 
you  or  of  me.  It  isn't  as  though  you  were  a  stranger 
to  her.  She  knew  you  well  enough  to  be  quite  cer- 
tain that  you  were  as  straight  as  any  girl  who  ever 
lived.  I  don't  even  know  her  address  in  Sydney, 
but  I've  sent  the  letter  c/o  Frank  Miller,  the 
Wairiri  solicitor,  whom  she's  instructed  to  take 
proceedings.  After  she  gets  my  letter,  I  don't  think 
she  can  possibly  go  on  with  the  case.  But  all  the 
same  you'd  better  see  Ford  tomorrow  and  act  on 
his  advice.  He  isn't  my  lawyer,  but  he's  a  very  old 
friend,  and  will  do  all  he  can  for  you. 

"This  thing  that  I've  been  trying  to  tell  you  is 
that  Vera  is  suing  me  for  divorce,  and  has  named 
you  as  co-respondent.  In  some  way  it  must  have 
got  out  that  you  were  with  me  in  my  room  that  last 
night  at  Tirau— and,  the  world  being  what  it  is, 
the  inference  is  not  that  you  were  an  angel  of 
mercy  and  of  pity  then— one  of  the  pluckiest  and 


178  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

sweetest  little  girls  God  ever  made— but  something 
different.  Well,  I  suppose  it's  natural  to  think  the 
worst  and  not  the  best  of  human  nature.  But  it's  so 
damned  disgusting  that  your  unselfish  kindness 
should  have  brought  this  on  your  head  that  when 
I  think  of  it  I  can't  go  on  writing.  The  words  I 
want  to  use  aren't  fit  for  you  to  read.  Ford  told  me 
this  evening  that  it  would  be  better  for  me  not  to 
see  you  at  all  at  present;  and  better  that  you 
shouldn't  go  to  my  solicitor.  Ford  is  a  good  chap 
and  if  you  go  to  see  him  tomorrow— his  office  is  in 
Field's  Buildings  in  Wells  Street— he'll  tell  you 
what  to  do. 

"I'm  leaving  for  Tirau  by  the  service  car  at 
seven  in  the  morning.  To  think  that  it's  through 
me  your  name  should  be  dragged  in  the  mud  like 
this  makes  me  feel— no,  I  can't  tell  you  what  I  feel 
—it's  beyond  telling.  It  doesn't  seem  possible  that 
the  case  will  ever  come  into  Court.  But  in  a  place 
like  Wairiri,  rumors  of  it  are  sure  to  get  about,  and 
it's  bound  to  injure  you.  When  I  think  of  that- 
well  shooting  myself  now  wouldn't  do  any  good— 
I'd  only  make  matters  worse.  And  I  gave  you  my 
promise  too  about  that.  I'm  not  good  at  expressing 
my  thoughts,  but  that  night  to  me  you  were  like 
my  mother  and  my  child  and  the  Virgin  Mary. 
"God  bless  you,  dear  little  Ann, 

"RICHARD  HOLMES." 

Ann  read  this  letter  through  to  the  end,  standing 
near  the  window  in  the  fading  light.  Then  she  drew 
the  curtains,  switched  on  the  electric  light,  and  pull- 
ing her  chair  up  to  one  of  the  tables,  pushed  the  hat 
stands  n  one  side,  laid  the  closely  covered  sheet  of 


Smoke  without  Fire  179 

paper  out  before  her,  and  read  it  through  again.  She 
knew  now  the  reason  for  the  slight  coolness  shown  to 
her  by  the  Ralstons,  and  some  of  the  other  race-goers, 
that  afternoon;  knew  that  the  divorce  case  she  had 
heard  discussed  was  this  one— that  the  co-respondent 
mentioned  was  herself.  Scandal  in  Wairiri  was  like  a 
bush  fire  after  a  dry,  hot  summer— it  spread  as 
quickly.  Well,  even  if  the  case  never  came  into  the 
Court— and  it  was  impossible  to  believe  that  there 
was  the  remotest  chance  of  its  doing  so,  still,  the  mere 
fact  of  her  having  been  cited  in  the  case  might  handi- 
cap her  newly-started  business.  As  far  as  her  personal 
reputation  was  concerned,  she  did  not  care  so  much. 
If  people  could  believe  that  of  her  after  they  had 
heard  the  true  story,  they  weren't  worth  considering. 
After  all,  she  had  no  real  friends  to  lose  in  Wairiri. 
Yet,  suddenly  realizing  what  the  case  might  mean  to 
her  if  by  some  unthinkable  chance  it  did  reach  the 
Court,  she  saw  herself  in  the  witness-box  being  asked 
horrible,  intimate  questions— saw  the  eager  sightseers 
in  the  gallery!  Heard  the  badgering  cross-examina- 
tion! 

Ann  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  How  could  she 
ever  find  courage  enough  to  carry  her  through  such 
an  ordeal?  For  a  moment  she  sat  quite  still.  Then  the 
wave  of  crimson  which  had  surged  up  into  her  pale 
face  receded,  leaving  her  whiter  than  before.  She 
must  write  to  Vera  at  once.  It  wasn't  possible  that 
Vera  could  bring  this  case.  She  knew  the  charge  was 
false! 

Even  now  Ann's  predominant  feeling  was  not  so 
much  pity  for  herself,  as  pity  for  Dick  Holmes.  To  be 
aware  that  he  had  unwittingly  brought  trouble  on  a 
friend  would  mean  to  Holmes  very  real  sOffering. 


i8o  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

Oh,  Vera  couldn't  be  so  cruel  as  to  do  this  thing— she 
couldn't! 

Ann  rose  and  crossed  to  the  writing-table  in  the 
corner— she  wouldn't  lose  a  minute— she'd  write  at 
once! 

But  as  she  pulled  out  notepaper  and  envelopes, 
again  the  knocker  sounded.  Had  Holmes  changed  his 
mind  and  come  to  see  her  after  all?  She  hoped  that 
he  had  not,  for  what  had  they  to  say  to  one  another? 
He  had  told  her  everything  in  his  letter. 

She  moved  across  the  room,  and  into  the  narrow 
passage  at  the  entrance.  Throwing  open  the  door  she 
saw,  not  Holmes,  but  Rodney  Marsh  standing  on  the 
pavement. 

"Are  you  alone?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"Come  in  then." 

She  closed  the  outer  door,  and  he  followed  her 
back  into  her  showroom.  He  had  taken  off  his  hat; 
and  his  rumpled  hair,  and  something  in  his  eyes— a 
wild,  strained  look— accentuated  the  untamed  air, 
which  in  her  first  vision  of  him  had  been  so  apparent. 

"Have  you  been  drinking?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  answered.  "Perhaps  I  shall . . .  later.  I 
had  to  see  you  first." 

"Why?" 

He  came  close  to  her,  where  she  stood  by  the  table 
under  the  light. 

"They're  saying  things— coupling  your  name  with 
Holmes." 

"Well?" 

"Tell  me  it  isn't  true— what  they're  saying." 


Smoke  without  Fire  181 

"Why  should  I  tell  you  anything?  What  business  is 
it  of  yours?" 

He  sat  down  suddenly,  and  putting  his  elbows  on 
the  table,  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"I'm  in  hell,"  he  said. 

"Then  it's  a  hell  of  your  own  making." 

He  made  no  reply,  and  after  a  moment  Ann  sat 
down  at  the  other  side  of  the  table  opposite  to 
him. 

"Rodney,"  she  said  quietly,  "we'd  better  have  this 
out,  once  and  for  all.  You've  said  that  you  love  me, 
but  you  don't  love  me  well  enough  to  want  me  as 
your  wife.  Well,  you've  been  honest  at  least,  and  I'll 
try  to  be  honest  with  you— to  tell  you  everything  that 
is  in  my  heart." 

"Tell  me  that  what  they  say  isn't  true." 

"What  do  they  say?" 

"That  Mrs.  Holmes  is  bringing  a  case  for  divorce 
against  the  boss  and  . . .  you." 

"That  is  quite  true." 

He  looked  up  at  her  for  one  moment  with  wild 
and  haggard  eyes.  Then  his  face  dropped  into  his 
hands  again. 

"So  it's  too  late  now,  anyhow,"  he  muttered. 

"Too  late  for  what?" 

He  was  silent  and  she  went  on: 

"Do  you  mean  it's  too  late  for  you  to  ask  me  to 
marry  you?"  Again  he  did  not  answer,  and  she 
continued  steadily:  "Why  should  you  think  that  I 
would  accept  your  proposal?  What  have  you  to  offer 
me?  Is  it  a  very  exalted  position  to  be  the  wife  of  a 
drover?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  be  a  drover  always.  If  I  made 


182  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

up  my  mind  to  it,  I  could  have  my  own  place.  I  won 
more  today  than  I  won  at  Omoana." 

"And  you'll  probably  gamble  it  away  again,"  she 
returned  contemptuously.  "Money  got  like  that  isn't 
often  kept.  It's  only  the  money  earned  by  hard  work 
that's  much  use." 

"Who  says  I  can't  work  hard?" 

"We're  getting  away  from  the  point.  It  isn't  a 
question  of  money— that  wouldn't  count  much  with 
me  in  marriage— but  do  you  think  I  should  be  mak- 
ing a  very  brilliant  match  in  marrying  you?" 

"I'm  not  good  enough?" 

"I  don't  know  about  not  being  good  enough,  but 
you've  been  brought  up  with  a  different  standard  of 
life  and  education." 

"If  you  loved  me,  that  wouldn't  matter." 

"I  think  it  would  make  life  together  difficult." 

"Are  you  going  to  marry  the  boss  after  the  di- 
vorce?" he  asked  fiercely. 

"As  far  as  I  know,  I'm  not  going  to  marry  at  all. 
Two  men— men  who  have  far  more  in  the  way  of 
worldly  possessions  than  you  are  ever  likely  to  have, 
men  more  accustomed  to  the  world  in  which  I've 
been  brought  up— have  asked  me  to  marry  them  in 
the  last  six  months.  I  refused  them  both." 

"Would  either  of  them  ask  you  again— after . . . 
this?" 

"Yes,  I  think  both  of  them  would— if  they  thought 
there  was  any  chance  of  my  accepting  them.  At  any 
rate,  they  would  have  sense  enough  to  believe  that 
I  was  innocent  of  what  you  seem  to  imagine  is  true." 

"You've  told  me  that  it  is." 

"I've  told  you  that  Mrs.  Holmes  is  bringing  an 
action  for  divorce." 


Smoke  without  Fire  183 

"She  must  have  grounds  for  that,  mustn't  she?" 

"She  may  believe  she  has  grounds  for  it."  She 
paused  for  a  moment.  "And  would  you  never  forgive 
a  woman  for  a ...  a  fault— a  sin  if  you  like— of  that 
sort?  Has  your  life  been  altogether  free  from  . . .  from 
any  moments  of  ...  of  passion?" 

"A  man  and  a  woman  are  different." 

"You're  mistaken,"  she  answered  swiftly.  "A 
woman  has  her  temptations  as  well  as  a  man.  They 
may  not  be  as  many  or  as  frequent— the  penalty  for 
giving  way  is  greater.  That  is  a  safeguard  in  many 
cases.  But  a  woman  is  as  likely  to  be  swept  away  by 
physical  feelings  as  a  man— she's  only  a  human  being 
just  as  he  is.  I've  known  one  man  who  might  have 
. . .  have  influenced  me  in  this  way,  though  I  had  no 
affection,  no  real  admiration  for  him." 

"You're  making  it  worse." 

"I'm  trying  to  be  honest.  Because  I  know  that 
about  myself,  I'm  at  least  more  charitable  to  other 
women.  And  I'd  want  the  man  I  married  not  to  have 
one  standard  of  morality  for  himself,  and  another  for 
me." 

"Are  you  making  excuses  for  yourself?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  there's  no  need.  I  haven't  been  guilty  of 
this . . .  this  sort  of  error.  I  mean  to  remain  what 
men  call . . .  straight." 

"But  you've  admitted " 

"I've  admitted  nothing  beyond  the  fact  that  Mrs. 
Holmes  is  bringing  this  action.  She  is ...  mistaken, 
that's  all." 

"That  night  at  Tirau " 

"I  went  into  Mr.  Holmes's  room  because  I  saw  his 
shadow  on  the  blind,  and  he  held  a  revolver  in 


184  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

his  hand.  He  meant  to  kill  himself.  I  stopped  him. 
I  hadn't  the  faintest  thought  in  my  mind  of  any  con- 
sequences to  myself.  Even  if  that  thought  had  come 
to  me,  I'd  have  acted  in  the  same  way.  He  was  in 
great  trouble— in  desperate  need  of  help.  I  did  what 
I  could— that's  all.  Read  this." 

She  handed  him  the  letter  she  had  just  received, 
and  in  silence  Rodney  Marsh  read  it  from  beginning 
to  end. 

"At  any  rate,  it  shows  he  loves  you,"  he  said  at  last. 

"I  hope  he  does,  for  I  love  him." 

He  looked  up  at  her  again— with  scowling,  jealous 
brows. 

"No,  not  in  the  way  you  seem  to  think,"  she  went 
on.  "My  love  for  him  is  like  the  affection  which  I 
think  he  has  for  me.  It  has  nothing  in  it  which  one 
may  not  rightly  feel  for  the  husband  of  another 
woman." 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  them,  and  at  last 
he  rose. 

"Are  you  going  to  stay  on  here— in  Wairiri?" 

"Certainly.  Why  not?  There's  no  reason  for  me  to 
run  away." 

She  had  risen  too,  and  now  moved  slowly  towards 
the  door  beside  him. 

"You  were  going  to  be  honest  with  me,  to  tell  me 
everything  in  your  heart,"  he  said  abruptly. 

"I've  tried  to  be  honest." 

"Do  you  . . .  love  me?" 

"You've  no  right  to  ask  me  that." 

He  turned  suddenly,  and  with  a  queer,  inarticulate 
sound  that  was  almost  a  groan  took  her  in  his  arms, 
holding  her  closely  as  he  pressed  his  face  down 
against  her  smooth  white  neck.  For  a  few  seconds 


Smoke  without  Fire  185 

they  stood  immovable,  then  without  a  word  Ann  put 
her  two  hands  against  his  breast,  and  stepped  back. 
His  grip  relaxed,  and  his  hands  released  her. 

"Very  well,  I  will  be  honest,"  she  said  quietly. 
"Many  times  before  you  made  it  plain  to  me  that  you 
did  not  want  me,  I  debated  in  my  mind  the . . .  the 
question  of  marriage  with  you.  You  aren't  the  sort 
of  man  I  should  willingly  have  chosen  to ...  love. 
Class  consciousness  is  a  stupid  overworked  phrase, 
and  yet  we're  all  class  conscious— we  can't  help  it. 
There  are  little  differences  between  us— between  you 
and  me.  They  might  be  quite  enough  to  wreck  our 
happiness— I  don't  know.  We  should  each  need  to  be 
patient  with  the  other.  And  I  think  we  neither  of  us 
are  very  patient.  You  are  self-willed,  and  though 
you're  ignorant  in  many  ways,  that  doesn't  diminish 
your  pride  and  arrogance." 

"Haven't  you  any  faults?" 

"Very  many,  but  they  aren't  quite  the  same  as 
yours,  and  therefore  I  might  not  be  tolerant  enough 
with  you.  And  yet— I  made  up  my  mind  that  if  you 
wanted  me ...  to  be  your  wife,  I'd  say— yes,  be- 
cause"—she  hesitated  for  a  moment  and  then  went  on 
bravely— "I  think  I  could  have  learnt  to  love  you 
more  than  I  could  ever  love  another  man." 

He  made  a  movement  as  though  to  take  her  in  his 
arms  again,  but  she  held  up  her  hand. 

"No,  you're  not  to  do  that  any  more.  Even  now, 
though  you  want  me,  marriage  seems  a  tie— a  bond- 
age to  you.  I  wouldn't  marry  any  man  who  felt  like 
that,  for  there's  no  bondage  in  marriage  if  people 
are  truly  mated.  You  show  me  that  we  shouldn't  be." 

She  opened  the  outer  door,  and  he  moved  slowly 
towards  it.  In  the  entrance  he  turned  once  more. 


i86  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

She  thought  he  meant  to  speak,  but  no  words  came. 
Then,  after  a  pause,  with  a  brief  "good  night,"  he 
passed  out  on  to  the  dimly-lighted  pavement. 

So  that  was  over!  Ann  came  back  into  the  show- 
room, and  took  up  Dick  Holmes's  letter  which  lay 
open  on  the  table  amongst  the  disordered  hat-stands. 


She  was  very  tired.  The  scene  with  Rodney  seemed 
to  have  bereft  her  of  all  vitality.  But  she  went  back 
to  her  writing-table  to  begin  her  letter  to  Vera 
Holmes.  For  a  long  time  she  sat  gazing  down  at  the 
blank  sheet  of  paper  before  her.  How  difficult  to 
express  in  words  all  that  she  wished  to  say!  It  was 
true,  as  she  had  told  Rodney,  that  she  was  not  un- 
charitable in  her  thoughts  of  other  women.  Young 
as  she  was,  she  realized  the  latent  power  of  passion  in 
herself,  and  though  she  turned  with  a  sense  of  sick 
distaste  from  the  contemplation  of  Vera's  secret,  yet 
she  understood  a  little  the  strength  of  the  temptation 
to  which  the  older  woman  had  yielded  in  beginning 
this  intrigue  with  Gerald  Waring.  Vera  had  not  mar- 
ried the  right  man.  She  needed  a  strong,  ruthlessly 
masculine  mate  to  dominate,  and  hold  her.  Holmes 
was  too  sensitive  and  self-effacing  to  interest  her  for 
long.  His  finer  qualities— the  gentle  consideration 
for  others— she  had  unconsciously  grown  to  despise  as 
weakness.  But  though  she  recognized  this,  Ann  still 
was  of  stern  enough  stuff  to  hate  the  sin  of  disloyalty 
of  which  Vera  had  been  guilty.  Disloyalty,  not  only 
to  her  husband,  but  to  her  children,  and  in  a  lesser 
degree  to  Ann  herself.  To  hurt  others— to  betray 
them— that  seemed  to  Ann  the  essence  of  immorality. 


Smoke  without  Fire  187 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Holmes,"  she  began,  and  then  sat 
again  for  a  long  time  with  her  pen  poised  above  the 
paper.  Well,  her  letter  might  be  muddled— her  mean- 
ing not  clearly  expressed— but  she  must  do  the  best 
she  could,  and  so  she  continued: 

"Mr.  Holmes  has  written  to  me  to  say  that  you 
are  bringing  an  action  for  divorce  against  him,  and 
that  you  are  using  my  name  in  order  to  try 
and  obtain  your  freedom.  I  don't  for  a  moment 
think  that  you  believe  this  of  me,  or  of  him.  You 
know  he  would  never  be  unfaithful  to  you;  but 
you  have  heard  that  I  was  in  his  room  with  him 
the  night  after  you  left  Tirau,  and  your  quick 
brain  has  seized  on  this  as  a  possible  solution  for 
yourself.  I  know  you  want  your  freedom,  and  I 
know  why  you  want  it.  But  can  you  be  cruel 
enough  to  sacrifice  me,  whom  you  professed  to 
like— and  I  believe  you  really  did  care  for  me— 
to  gain  your  own  ends?  I'm  not  attempting  to 
judge  you  for  the  wrong  you  personally  have  done 
to  your  husband.  The  last  time  Mr.  Waring  stayed 
at  Tirau,  I  went  up  after  midnight  for  a  book  to 
the  schoolroom.  I  was  only  there  a  second,  but 
it  was  long  enough  for  me  to  realize  that  weeks 
before  I'd  been  a  foolish  dupe— so  concerned  and 
anxious  for  your  safety  when  I  met  you  walking 
in  the  dawn.  Yet  even  now  when  I  remember  it,  I 
know  that  you  were  very  unhappy  that  night,  and 
I'm  sorry  for  you  again,  as  I  was  then. 

"You  want  your  freedom  in  order  to  marry 
Gerald  Waring.  When  you  have  got  that  freedom, 
are  you  quite  certain  that  he  will  marry  you?  He 
asked  me  to  be  his  wife  before  he  left  Tirau,  and 


i88  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

I  refused.  But  he  told  me  to  write  to  him  if  I  were 
likely  to  change  my  mind.  Please  don't  misunder- 
stand my  motive  for  telling  you  this.  The  fact  that 
I  know  your  secret  can  make  no  difference  to  you, 
for  you  are  the  only  person  who  will  ever  be  aware 
that  I  know  it.  Mr.  Holmes  himself  has  no  sus- 
picion of  it— I'm  convinced  of  that.  He  looks  upon 
Gerald  Waring  as  his  true  friend,  and  he  loves  you 
now,  and  I  think  always  will  love  you  devotedly. 
I'd  rather  suffer  anything  myself  than  add  to  the 
troubles  he  has  to  bear.  And  with  regard  to 
the  story  which  I  suppose  you  heard  from  Mrs. 
Pratt,  of  my  being  in  his  room,  it  was  because  I 
saw  him  with  a  revolver  in  his  hand  and  knew  he 
meant  to  kill  himself.  He'd  come  to  the  end  of 
everything— facing  ruin— and  you  had  left  him. 
He  was  half  mad,  I  think,  writh  grief  and  worry. 
If  I  hadn't  been  with  him  that  night— as  innocently 
as  Biddy  might  have  been— you  would  already  have 
had  your  freedom.  Do  you  regret  that?  Would  you 
like  to  feel  that  his  death  might  be  laid  at  your 
door?  The  man  who  has  loved  you  so  dearly  for 
ten  years?  Oh,  I  don't  think  you  could  wish  that! 
I  don't  think  any  one  could— however  wicked.  And 
I  don't  believe  you're  wicked.  Please,  please,  Mrs. 
Holmes,  come  back  to  him  and  to  Biddy  and  Jo. 
You  can't  want  to  leave  them  for  ever.  But  I  sup- 
pose if  you  get  a  divorce  the  Court  will  give  you 
the  custody  of  the  children,  or  whatever  they  call  it. 
And  I'm  not  asking  this  for  myself.  I  shall  loathe 
being  dragged  into  this  case,  but  I  believe  I  can 
honestly  say  that  if  by  suffering  as  much  as  I  know  I 
shall  suffer  if  this  case  comes  on  and  I  have  to  de- 


Smoke  without  Fire  189 

fend  it  I  could  bring  you  back  to  your  husband 
and  your  children,  I'd  do  it. 

"I'm  afraid  that's  very  mixed.  My  going  through 
the  humiliation  of  the  Divorce  Court  couldn't  help 
to  bring  you  back.  What  I  mean  is  that  I'd  suffer 
an  equal  humiliation  if  in  this  way  I  could  only 
give  Mr.  Holmes  back  some  happiness.  He's  back 
at  Tirau  again  now  as  manager,  and  things  may 
not  be  so  bad  as  he  thought  at  first  they  would  be. 
If  you  could  have  seen  him  as  I  saw  him  that  night 
your  heart  would  have  melted  with  pity— I  know  it 
would— and  although  perhaps  there  was  a  little 
truth  in  what  you  said  that  first  night,  when  I 
arrived  at  Tirau,  about  being  jealous  of  me,  you 
grew  to  be  a  little  fond  of  me  too.  And  you're  so 
handsome  and  so  fascinating  yourself,  why  need 
you  be  jealous  of  any  one?  But  no  beauty  and  no 
fascination  can  revive  a  love  that's  dead.  Do  you 
think  Gerald  Waring  would  marry  you?  I  don't. 
There's  a  poem  of  Kipling's,  isn't  there,  with  a 
line— 'When  a  man  is  tired  there  is  naught  will 
bind  him!'?  Oh,  please,  Mrs.  Holmes,  don't  think 
this  is  meant  cruelly— it  isn't.  It's  just  truth.  And  if 
he  did  marry  you,  it  wouldn't  mean  any  happi- 
ness to  you— only  misery.  I  don't  believe  he'd  be 
faithful  to  any  one.  But  don't  think  of  me  in  con- 
nection with  him.  I  don't  ever  want  to  see  him 
again. 

"I  know  this  letter  is  all  mixed  up  and  I  haven't 
said  what  I  want  to  properly,  but  I'm  so  terribly 
tired  tonight.  Love— real  love— affection  and  trust 
and  kindness— isn't  so  easy  to  find  in  this  world. 
And  you've  been  given  all  that  by  your  husband. 
He'd  never  change  towards  you.  You're  all  the 


190  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

world  to  him— and  as  you  get  older,  he'll  go  on  lov- 
ing you  just  the  same;  and  then  there  are  Biddy 
and  Jo.  They're  at  Mrs.  Marley's  now,  and  quite 
well  and  happy  for  the  present,  I  think.  Oh,  don't 
go  on  with  the  case— come  back  to  Tirau— won't 
you?  Whatever  has  happened  in  the  past  is  over 
and  done  with.  You'll  find  happiness,  I  believe, 
in  the  end  if  you  only  come  back  now.  I'll  hate 
the  case,  of  course,  but  it  can't  do  me  much  real 
harm— I'm  not  likely  to  marry  now— anyhow." 

She  stopped,  and  laid  down  her  pen.  When  she 
began  again  the  page  was  blotted  with  her  tears. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  put  this  letter  in  the  waste 
paper  basket,  and  try  and  write  something  more 
sensible  tomorrow.  But  I  can't  go  over  it  all 
again.  It'll  just  have  to  be  posted  tonight  and  take 
its  chance.  It's  stupid  and  muddled.  You  must  for- 
give that.  I  was  always  sorry  for  you  because  some- 
how I  knew  you  were  unhappy.  I'm  still  sorry 
for  you.  I  wonder  if  we'll  ever  meet  again.  Some- 
times I  was  angry  with  you  at  Tirau,  but  nearly 
always  I  knew  my  anger  wouldn't  last.  It  hasn't  to- 
night. It  seems  to  have  gone  as  I've  been  writing. 
We're  all  like  children  in  this  world,  I  think,  do- 
ing wrong  and  quarreling  and  hurting  one  another 
half  the  time  without  knowing  why  we  do  it,  but 
I  believe  God  makes  allowances  for  us.  He  knows 
that  life  isn't  easy  for  us,  and  we  don't  really  want 
to  be  bad. 

"Good  night— I  wish  when  I  go  to  bed  tonight, 
I  needn't  wake  up  again.  Perhaps  that's  cowardly, 


Smoke  without  Fire  191 

but  I'm  not  feeling  very  happy  and  I'm  terribly 
tired. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  end  this,  so  will  just  put 

"ANN  MERRILL." 

She  pushed  the  untidy  sheets  into  an  envelope, 
addressed  the  letter  "c/o  Frank  Miller,  Solicitor, 
Wairiri,"  and  marked  it,  "Please  forward  imme- 
diately." 

Within  ten  minutes  she  had  dropped  it  in  the  post- 
box  at  the  end  of  the  street,  and  was  back  in  her  own 
room. 

The  little  clock  on  her  dressing-table  struck  two  as 
she  fell  into  bed,  utterly  spent  and  exhausted. 


XI 

The  Fords 


i. 

THROUGHOUT  her  interview  with  Mr.  Ford,  the  gray- 
haired  kindly  solicitor  to  whom  Holmes  had  sent  her, 
Ann  had  managed  to  preserve  what  Ford  would  have 
called  a  "stiff  upper  lip." 

They  discussed  the  case,  and  the  steps  she  must 
take  to  defend  the  action.  Then  she  rose  to  go.  Her 
face  was  very  white,  and  to  Ford  she  suddenly  ap- 
peared an  extraordinarily  pathetic  little  figure. 

"It's  a  damned  shame,"  he  said,  all  at  once  losing 
his  matter-of-fact,  professional  manner,  and  becom- 
ing entirely  human.  "Why,  you're  only  a  kid.  I 
wonder  what  I'd  have  felt  like,  if  this  had  happened 
to  my  daughter  Rhoda  when  she  was  your  age." 

Ann's  "stiff  upper  lip"  abruptly  crumpled,  and  she 
burst  into  tears.  And  they  were  not  quiet,  ladylike 
and  undisfiguring  tears.  She  covered  her  twisted  face 
with  her  handkerchief,  and  walked  to  the  window  so 
that  the  man  behind  her  could  not  see  the  havoc  he 
had  wrought.  She  was  sobbing  like  a  child,  and  she 
was  bitterly  ashamed  of  the  exhibition  she  was  mak- 
ing of  herself.  Except  for  those  few  tears  she  had 
dropped  on  to  the  page  of  Vera's  letter,  she  had  not 
cried  until  this  moment.  Well,  she  was  making  up 
for  it  now! 

19* 


The  Fords  193 

Ford,  a  trifle  appalled  at  the  result  of  his  warmly- 
expressed  sympathy,  stood  gazing  at  her  heaving 
shoulders,  and  listening  to  the  queerly  touching  little 
noises  she  was  making. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  she  managed  to  gasp  out  at  last. 
"I  didn't  mean  to  cry— I  don't  know  why  I'm  mak- 
ing such  a  fool  of  myself.  I'd  have  been  all  right 
if  you  hadn't  spoken  so  ...  so  kindly.  And  now  I ...  I 
can't  stop." 

"Well,  don't,"  said  Ford.  "Have  it  out.  Forget  I'm 
here." 

She  still  stood  at  the  window  with  her  back  turned 
to  him,  sobbing,  but  struggling  for  self-control. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  went  on,  "I  often  think  that 
nature's  been  kinder  to  women  than  to  men  in  this 
respect.  There  have  been  many  moments  in  my  life 
when  I've  wished  that  tears  would  come  to  me. 
They're  an  outlet,  and  a  relief.  You  cry  on  as  long 
as  you  like.  No  one  will  come  into  this  room,  and 
you're  not  disturbing  me.  I  shan't  take  any  more 
notice  of  you  than  if  you  were  the  office  boy  asking 
for  a  day  off  to  go  to  his  grandmother's  funeral." 

And  so  Ann  cried  on  for  a  few  moments— her  eyes 
getting  redder  and  her  pretty  face  more  swollen.  But 
gradually  the  sobbing  ceased.* 

"What  about  a  cup  of  tea?  I  could  get  one  in  half 
a  minute— or  a  whisky  and  soda?" 

Ann  shook  her  head,  smiling— a  little,  pathetic 
twisted  smile— as  she  turned  towards  him. 

"I'm  all  right  now.  Quite  all  right— really  I  am. 
You  see,  I've  just  started  a  little  hat  shop  here,  and 
all  this . . .  this  talk  may  ruin  my  business.  And  if  I 
lose  my  capital,  I  can't  get  a  job  again  as  governess 
—no  one  would  have  me  after  . . .  after  this." 


194  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"Don't  you  believe  your  business  will  suffer.  You'll 
get  a  good  advertisement  out  of  the  gossip— if  there 
is  any." 

But  though  he  spoke  with  great  confidence,  he  was 
not  really  quite  convinced  that  he  was  speaking  the 
truth. 

"Besides,  who  is  likely  to  know  about  it  except 
ourselves,  until  the  case  comes  on?  And  I  don't  be- 
lieve that  Mrs.  Holmes  will  ever  bring  it  into  Court." 

"Every  one  seems  to  know  about  it  already,"  re- 
turned Ann.  "Some  one  in  Mr.  Miller's  office  has 
spread  the  news." 

"I'd  soon  fire  a  clerk  of  mine  who  talked  outside 
the  office,"  said  Ford,  grimly. 

In  his  heart  he  was  cursing  Vera,  and  resolving  that 
he'd  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  help  this  poor  perse- 
cuted child.  But  he  had  learnt  that  it  was  wiser  not 
to  give  expression  to  his  sympathy;  so  he  continued 
to  talk  quite  unemotionally  about  impersonal  mat- 
ters, while  Ann  wiped  her  eyes,  and  dabbed  at  her 
nose  with  her  sodden  handkerchief. 

"I'll  get  Mary  to  call  and  see  her,"  he  was  thinking. 
"Mary'll  know  what  to  do  better  than  I  can.  And  if 
Mary  can't  stop  tongues  wagging  in  Wairiri  then  no 
one  can."  He  had  unlimited,  and  not  misplaced, 
confidence  in  the  wisdom  of  his  wife. 

At  last  Ann  felt  that  she  was  presentable  enough  to 
appear  in  public,  and  saying  good-by  to  the  lawyer, 
she  walked  back  to  her  own  block  of  buildings, 
where  Mrs.  Hill  sat  in  the  hat  shop  waiting  for  her 
return. 

The  day  passed  without  a  single  customer  entering 
the  showroom.  Was  this  the  beginning  of  the  end, 
Ann  wondered?  Had  the  rumored  scandal  already 


The  Fords  195 

destroyed  her  chances  of  success  in  business?  Or  was 
it  merely  the  not  altogether  unexpected  slackness 
after  the  rush  of  buyers  for  the  race  meetings?  Time 
alone  would  prove  that.  At  any  rate,  she  would  not 
anticipate  defeat,  and  so  she  and  Mrs.  Hill  worked 
hard  all  the  afternoon,  and  ignored  the  dearth  of 
purchasers. 

Her  assistant  had  heard  nothing  of  the  impending 
divorce  case,  of  that  Ann  felt  convinced.  And  it  was  a 
relief  to  her  to  know  that  there  was  one  friend  at 
least  who  could  still  eye  her  without  suspicion. 
"Friend"  was  a  word  she  had  grown  accustomed  to 
using  now  in  thinking  of  Mrs.  Hill,  her  loyal  and 
hard-working  co-adjutor.  And  she  wondered,  with  a 
little  sinking  at  her  heart,  if  Mrs.  Hill  would  remain 
so  attached  to  her,  and  to  her  interests,  if  once  the 
seeds  of  distrust  as  to  her  employer's  character  were 
sown  in  her  honest  heart.  Frailty  in  members  of  their 
own  sex  seemed  to  be  the  unforgivable  sin  in  most 
women's  eyes.  But  perhaps  Mrs.  Hill  might  give  her 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  After  all  Mr.  Ford  hadn't 
believed  the  story.  But  then  he'd  known  Dick 
Holmes  for  years,  and  wouldn't  be  likely  to  listen  to 
any  discreditable  rumor  concerning  him.  That  made 
a  difference. 

Well,  Ann  could  only  hope  for  the  best.  Surely 
every  one  wouldn't  take  the  same  view  as  Mrs.  Pratt! 
Rodney,  she  knew,  did  not  doubt  the  truth  of  what 
she  had  told  him,  but  he  was  insanely  jealous,  and  re- 
sented the  mere  fact  of  Holmes's  affectionate  regard 
for  her.  How  could  that  bitter  jealousy  exist  in  his 
heart  when  he  was  still  so  determined  not  to  ask  her 
to  be  his  wife?  That  was  a  problem  she  could  not 
solve.  It  was  part  and  parcel  of  the  young  drover's 


196  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

stubborn  self-willed  character,  and  she  must  accept  it 
as  such.  However,  it  was  all  of  no  consequence  now. 
Her  connection  with  Marsh,  such  as  it  had  been,  was 
at  an  end.  They  would  not  meet  again,  except  by 
chance,  and  then  only  as  mere  acquaintances.  And 
she  would  not  allow  her  thoughts  to  turn  again  in  his 
direction.  Of  that  she  was  resolved. 


2. 

It  was  after  eleven  o'clock,  the  next  morning,  when 
a  middle-aged  woman  came  into  the  shop.  This  was 
the  first  customer  Ann  had  seen  for  two  days,  and  she 
rose  from  the  chair  where  she  had  been  sitting  work- 
ing, and  came  forward.  Today,  being  Saturday,  Mrs. 
Hill  was  not  in  attendance,  and  Ann  was  quite  alone. 

"Can  I  show  you  anything?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  afraid  all  your  pretty  hats  are  rather  too 
young,  and  gay  for  me,"  returned  the  newcomer, 
looking  round,  "and  I'm  so  old-fashioned  that  I'm 
not  even  shingled.  No  one  seems  to  make  hats  for  old 
women,  nowadays." 

"But  no  women  are  old  nowadays." 

The  customer  laughed.  She  had  a  very  charming 
laugh.  Quite  as  young  and  gay  as  any  of  the  hats, 
thought  Ann. 

"Well,  I'm  fifty-eight.  I  don't  want  to  wear  the 
same  sort  of  hat  as  my  granddaughter." 

"Why  not,  if  it  suits  you?" 

"It  wouldn't." 

"Well,  try  this  one  on,  and  see." 

She  produced  a  plain  black  hat  which,  though  neat 
and  smart,  might  be  worn  by  a  girl,  or  a  woman  of 
more  advanced  age.  The  customer  eyed  it  doubtfully. 


The  Fords  197 

"It  might  do.  It's  certainly  better  than  the  one  my 
daughter  persuaded  me  to  buy  a  week  or  two  ago  in 
Auckland.  She  said  I  looked  sixteen  in  it.  I  thought 
I  looked  an  old  fool." 

Ann  laughed. 

"You  couldn't  look  that,  whatever  you  put  on.  But 
I  shouldn't  like  you  to  go  out  of  my  shop  wearing 
something  that  didn't  suit  you." 

"Why  not,  if  I  pay  for  it?" 

"It's  a  bad  advertisement  for  me.  I've  only  had  one 
failure  of  that  sort.  It  was  my  first  sale!" 

"What  happened?" 

Ann  told  the  story  of  the  old  Maori  woman,  and 
her  new  customer  laughed  again.  As  they  continued 
to  chat  while  trying  on  various  hats,  Ann  wondered 
who  she  was.  She  apparently  knew  most  of  Ann's 
clients  very  well,  but  she  had  not  been  at  the  Turf 
Club  Race  Meeting,  and  had  never  been  into  the 
shop  before.  At  last  a  hat  was  decided  upon  which 
Ann  and  the  purchaser  decided  was  both  suitable  and 
becoming.  Then  she  told  Ann  her  name. 

"I'm  Mrs.  Ford,"  she  said.  "I  wanted  to  meet  you 
because  my  husband  spoke  to  me  about  you  last 
night." 

She  did  not  tell  Ann  what  had  actually  transpired 
between  them.  Ford  had  said: 

"Go  and  see  the  poor  child  for  yourself.  Look  at 
her  honest  eyes,  and  tell  me  if  you  think  she's  the  sort 
of  girl  who's  likely  to  be  guilty  of  a  sordid  intrigue 
of  this  sort.  I'll  take  my  oath  she  isn't,  but  you've 
often  told  me  your  judgment's  better  than  mine  with 
regard  to  women." 

"Of  course  it  is.  You're  no  exception  to  the  rule, 
my  dear  old  stupid.  Every  man  says  good-by  to  his 


198  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

critical  faculty  the  moment  he  looks  into  a  young  and 
pretty  face  and  meets  a  pair  of  sweet  appealing  eyes." 

"You're  basing  that  remark  on  an  event  that  hap- 
pened nearly  forty  years  ago,  I  suppose." 

"Well,  at  least  you're  admitting  that  I  was  pretty, 
and  had  sweet  appealing  eyes  in  those  days." 

And  after  that  they  had  both  laughed,  and  Mrs. 
Ford  had  agreed  to  call  and  inspect  Ann. 

Now  she  went  on  aloud: 

"Where  are  you  living?" 

Ann  pointed  to  the  door  at  the  back  of  the  show- 
room. 

"I  have  a  room  there." 

"Come  to  us  for  the  week-end,  will  you?  We're 
alone— my  husband  and  I  at  present.  My  grand- 
daughter has  been  down  from  the  country  for  the 
races,  but  she  went  home  yesterday.  And  next  week 
Rhoda— my  daughter— is  bringing  her  two  youngest 
boys  down  to  see  the  dentist.  Come  and  spend  tonight 
and  tomorrow  night  with  us,  will  you?  If  it  isn't  too 
dull  for  you  with  two  old  people." 

"I'm  not  accustomed  to  anything  very  gay." 

"Oh,  I  heard  that  you  made  a  great  success  at  the 
races.  One  hears  everything  very  quickly  in  Wairiri, 
you  know.  We  haven't  anything  else  to  do  but  to  en- 
deavor to  secure  servants  and  garden,  and  chat  about 
our  neighbors.  Will  you  come?" 

"I'd  love  to,"  said  Ann,  conscious  of  a  little  lump 
in  her  throat. 

"Very  well,  that's  settled,  then.  Do  you  keep  the 
shop  open  on  Saturday  afternoon?" 

"Yes.  Thursday  is  early  closing  day." 

"Very  well,  I'll  call  for  you  in  the  car  about  five- 
thirty.  Will  that  be  all  right?" 


The  Fords  199 

"Quite,"  said  Ann.  She  paused  for  a  moment  to 
be  quite  sure  that  her  voice  was  steady.  "I'm  not 
going  to  try  and  thank  you,  Mrs.  Ford,  but  I'm  far 
more  grateful  to  you  than  you'll  ever  realize  because 
I  know  the  . . .  the  kindness  that  has  prompted  your 
invitation." 

"No  kindness  at  all,  my  dear,"  returned  Mrs.  Ford 
in  a  perfectly  matter-of-fact  tone.  "I  shouldn't  ask  you 
if  I  didn't  want  you.  Do  you  play  bridge?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Ann. 

"Fond  of  it?  Would  you  like  a  game  tonight?" 

"Very  much  indeed,  if  you  would." 

"Oh,  I'm  always  ready  for  a  game.  We're  not 
really  top-notchers,  my  husband  and  I,  but  we  both 
play  a  fair  game,  and  only  sixpence  a  hundred.  Hope 
you're  not  too  brilliant." 

Ann  shook  her  head. 

"I'm  only  moderately  good." 

"I'll  secure  a  fourth,  and  I'll  collect  the  hat  when  I 
collect  you.  Good-by." 

With  a  swift  smile  she  nodded,  and  was  gone. 


The  fourth  for  bridge— Robin  Ashby— was  a  plain 
young  clerk  from  Ford's  office.  But  he  was  amusing 
and  good-humored,  and  evidently  a  great  favorite 
with  his  host  and  hostess.  He  came  on  to  dinner  from 
the  tennis  courts,  where  he  had  been  playing  a  match, 
and  was  still  in  his  flannels. 

"I  ought  to  have  gone  back  to  change,"  he  re- 
marked, eyeing  Ann  in  her  white  frock. 

"Nonsense,"  said  Mrs.  Ford.  "I  don't  want  my  cook 
to  give  notice  because  the  dinner's  kept  waiting.  I've 


200  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

been  without  any  one  in  the  kitchen  for  a  month,  and 
I  hate  doing  the  cooking." 

"I  only  had  time  to  get  a  shower  at  the  club— the 
last  set  lasted  so  long." 

"Well,  you're  clean,  at  any  rate,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Ford,  cheerfully.  "Come  along— let's  have  dinner  and 
then  attack  the  serious  work  of  the  evening." 

The  Fords'  house  was  neither  very  large  nor  very 
elaborately  furnished.  It  was  comfortable  and  home- 
like—a somewhat  old-fashioned  two-storied  wooden 
building  surrounded  by  a  big  garden  and  wide  pad- 
docks. But  to  Ann  it  appeared  to  be  something  of  a 
paradise  on  earth.  Here,  at  least,  was  peace  and  good- 
will! And  though  the  house  might  lay  no  claim  to 
being  either  picturesque  or  artistic,  it  had  a  certain 
shabby  dignity— the  atmosphere  of  a  home  where  hap- 
piness has  been  shared— that  was  attractive  and  restful. 
The  garden  was  beautiful— shady  trees,  big  rose-beds, 
masses  of  pink  and  blue  and  mauve  hydrangea,  tall 
lemon  bushes  with  yellow  fruit  shining  among  the 
glossy  green  leaves,  and  wide  herbaceous  borders  in 
which  high  blue  delphiniums  and  sweet  peas  backed 
the  lower  growing  ranks  of  white,  and  purple,  and 
pink,  and  yellow  flowers. 

On  the  veranda,  after  dinner,  they  sat  in  deck- 
chairs  to  have  their  coffee— smoking,  to  keep  the  mos- 
quitoes at  bay— and  afterwards  adjourned  to  the 
drawing-room  for  bridge. 

It  was  a  quiet,  but  very  happy  week-end  for  Ann, 
and  it  gave  her  courage  to  face  the  coming  week  of 
struggle  and  disappointment.  For  she  was  quite  con- 
vinced now  that  her  business  would  peter  out,  and  she 
would  be  left  without  resources  at  the  end  of  six 
months.  But  she  resolved  to  adopt  as  her  motto  "Suf- 


The  Fords  201 

ficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,"  and  not  to 
worry  about  the  future  more  than  she  could  help. 


For  the  first  three  days  of  the  following  week  no 
one  entered  her  shop.  On  the  fourth— which  was  early 
closing  day— she  was  sitting  alone— still  working,  for 
she  had  refused  as  yet  to  give  up  hope— when  Mrs. 
Ford's  car  stopped  in  the  street  outside,  and  in  walked 
Mrs.  Ford  herself,  her  daughter  Rhoda,  and  Rhoda's 
two  sons. 

"This  is  my  daughter,  Mrs.  Hemingway,"  said  Mrs. 
Ford,  "and  these  are  the  twins,  Peter  and  Paul,  and  if 
you  can  tell  t'other  from  which  after  they've  got  thor- 
oughly mixed,  you'll  be  cleverer  than  I  am." 

The  little  boys,  who  were  seven  years  old,  toofo  off 
their  caps  and  gravely  shook  hands;  and  then  pro- 
ceeded to  make  a  tour  of  the  room,  examining  the 
hats  with  great  interest. 

"Buy  this  one,  Mum,"  said  Peter  (or  it  might  have 
been  Paul). 

"No,  this,"  interjected  his  twin.  "This  one's  got 
lovely  chrysantherums  on  it." 

"Those  aren't  chrysantherums." 

"Yes,  they  are." 

"No,  they  aren't.  They're  bits  of  pink  rag  tied  in  a 
bunch." 

"Well,  they're  meant  to  be  chrysantherums." 

A  lively  argument  ensued.  But  neither  Mrs.  Ford 
nor  Mrs.  Hemingway  paid  the  least  attention  to  the 
boys.  They  also  were  busy  examining  the  hats.  Mrs. 
Hemingway,  it  appeared,  wanted  two,  and  Ann 


202  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

seemed  to  have  the  very  two  she  wanted.  Before  they 
all  left  the  shop  Mrs.  Ford  turned  to  Ann. 

"We're  taking  the  boys  over  to  our  shack  on  the 
Puawa  beach,  to  bathe,  this  afternoon.  What  about 
joining  us?  You'll  be  free,  won't  you,  if  your  room  is 
closed?" 

"I've  arranged  to  call  for  Biddy  and  Jo  at  Mrs. 
Marley's." 

"Bring  them  along  too.  Rhoda's  driving  us  in  her 
Buick.  We'll  all  pack  in  quite  easily.  And  we're  tak- 
ing tea,  and  will  have  it  at  the  shack." 

"Do  come,"  said  Mrs.  Hemingway,  "if  it  wouldn't 
bore  you." 

She  was  a  very  pleasant-faced  woman  in  her  late 
thirties.  She  had  a  daughter  of  eighteen,  Ann  knew. 
Rhoda  had  evidently  followed  her  mother's  example, 
and  married  early. 

Ann  assured  them  that  she  certainly  wouldn't  be 
bored,  and  that  she  would  love  to  join  them;  and  it 
was  arranged  that  they  should  pick  up  the  little  girls 
at  Mrs.  Marley's,  and  then  call  for  Ann  at  the  shop 
shortly  after  two  o'clock. 

She  had  seen  Biddy  and  Jo  at  various  times  since 
the  day  they  had  traveled  down  from  Tirau,  and  had 
once  or  twice  taken  them  to  a  tea-shop  in  the  main 
street,  and  over  to  the  bathing-sheds  on  the  town 
beach,  less  than  a  mile  away,  for  a  swim.  But  she  had 
been  so  rushed  with  work  that  she  had  been  able  to 
spare  them  very  little  time.  Now,  she  looked  forward 
to  spending  the  whole  afternoon  with  them,  and  with 
these  new  friends. 

Puawa  beach  was  some  distance  from  Wairiri.  It 
was  beyond  a  big  hill  and  long  promontory,  which 
jutted  out  from  the  mouth  of  the  river  on  the  opposite 


The  Fords  203 

side  to  the  town.  You  crossed  the  bridge,  and  took  the 
road  leading  to  "The  Coast"— the  road  which  Ann  had 
traversed  in  the  service  car  when  she  first  set  out  for 
Tirau;  and  again  when  she  drove  with  Holmes  on 
that  terrible  journey  down  from  the  station,  nearly  six 
weeks  previously. 

The  hills,  now  yellow  and  sun-dried,  were  all 
around  them  as  the  car  left  the  town  behind;  and  be- 
yond the  wire  fences  that  bordered  the  road  horses 
and  cattle  grazed  contentedly  in  the  hot  sunshine,  or 
stood  under  the  shade  of  the  willows,  switching  at  the 
flies  with  their  tails.  There  were  a  few  small  wooden 
houses  to  be  seen;  but  as  the  car  drew  farther  away 
from  Wairiri  the  houses  became  fewer  and  farther  be- 
tween. Larks  sang  overhead,  a  warm  wind  swayed  the 
briars  and  the  white  flowered  manuka  on  the  hillside, 
and  the  dust  lay  thick  on  the  roadway.  It  rose  in  a 
cloud  at  some  distance  ahead,  where  a  big  flock  of 
sheep  were  moving  slowly  towards  the  freezing  works 
on  the  bank  of  the  river,  under  the  lea  of  the  hill. 

In  a  few  moments  the  car  was  amongst  the  sheep, 
and  had  slowed  down.  Dogs  were  barking  to  clear  a 
passage-way  for  them— two  mounted  men  were  whis- 
tling. And  then  Ann  looked  up  suddenly,  to  see 
Rodney  Marsh  riding  close  beside  her.  He  stared 
at  her  for  a  moment,  then  lifted  his  hat,  looked  away, 
and  called  to  his  dogs.  After  a  little  delay  the  car  was 
clear  of  the  sheep,  and  Ann  was  thankful  that  neither 
Biddy  nor  Jo  had  noticed  that  Rodney  was  with  the 
mob. 

Mrs.  Ford  had  noticed  him,  however. 

"Did  you  see  that  handsome  young  drover?"  she 
asked  her  daughter.  "He's  a  new  client  of  Dad's.  He 
won  quite  a  big  sum  of  money  at  the  Turf  Club 


204  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

Races,  painted  the  town  red  that  night,  and  next  day 
pulled  off  a  marvelous  deal  in  cattle.  He's  made  quite 
a  good  thing  out  of  it.  Apparently  he's  going  in  for 
stock  dealing  as  well  as  droving.  Dad  says  he'd  make 
a  fine  stock-buyer  if  he  wasn't  quite  so  wild.  He's  got 
any  amount  of  ability.  Dad  likes  him." 

"He's  very  good  looking,"  said  Mrs.  Hemingway; 
and  dismissing  the  drover  from  the  conversation  be- 
gan to  talk  about  her  new  car. 

They  reached  the  two-roomed  shack— one  of  a  row 
of  small  summer  cottages  facing  the  long  sweep  of  the 
ocean  beach— and  undressing  within  the  house,  ran 
down  the  slope  of  the  white,  grass-tufted  sandhills  to 
the  foaming  line  of  breakers  on  the  beach.  They  all 
bathed.  Mrs.  Ford,  apparently  forgetting  that  she  had 
described  herself  as  an  old  woman,  plunged  into  the 
surf,  and  battled  with  the  tumbling  waves  with  quite 
as  keen  an  enjoyment  as  Ann  or  her  daughter,  or  any 
of  the  children. 

And  after  they  were  out  and  dressed  once  more, 
they  sat  in  the  cretonne-covered  chairs  in  the  front 
room  of  the  shack— whose  wide  doors  opened  to  the 
panorama  of  blue  sea,  green  hills,  and  racing  surf-- 
and  ate  an  enormous  meal  of  cakes  and  sandwiches, 
and  drank  large  cups  of  steaming  tea.  Ann  couldn't 
help  enjoying  the  day,  but  she  wished  she  had  not  seen 
Rodney.  Or  was  she  glad  that  she  had  seen  him?  That 
she  knew  he  was  not  far  away?  Impatiently  she  dis- 
missed that  question.  True  to  her  resolve,  she  had 
been  doing  her  best  not  to  think  of  him— to  call  up 
another  train  of  thought  directly  she  found  the 
memory  of  his  face,  his  voice  returning.  But  today  she 
couldn't  help  seeing  the  picture  of  him  stretched  out 
on  the  fern  of  the  hillside,  listening  to  her  as  she  read 


The  Fords  205 

"Daisy,"  while  the  little  girls  played  on  the  beach  be- 
low them,  and  the  gulls  wheeled  and  cried  above  the 
line  of  surf  that  fringed  the  lovely  bay. 

"A  berry  red,  a  guileless  look, 

A  still  word— strings  of  sand! 
And  yet  they  made  my  wild,  wild  heart 
Fly  down  to  her  little  hand!" 

She  remembered  his  clear  brown  eyes  looking  up  at 
her  as  she  read  that— and  something  in  his  look— some- 
thing intent  and  yet  startled.  Had  he  realized  in  that 
moment  that  it  was  possible  that  she  might  wield  some 
power  over  him?  Well,  it  wasn't  a  very  great  power 
she  had  wielded,  she  reflected  with  a  little  bitterness. 
His  wild,  wild  heart  might  have  flown  a  little  way 
down  towards  her  hand,  but  it  had  soon  regained  its 
liberty. 

Jo,  moving  suddenly,  sent  her  mug  of  tea  splashing 
across  the  table.  It  slopped  over  into  the  plate  of 
cakes,  and  the  little  paper  cases  sailed  about  in  it.  The 
children  shrieked  with  delight. 

"Little  boats  they  are,  sailing  in  the  sea.  And  the 
sea's  tea!" 

Mrs.  Ford  and  Rhoda  laughed,  and  Ann  mopped 
up  the  spilt  tea,  and  set  both  the  table,  and  her  mind, 
in  order. 

5- 

At  the  end  of  that  week  Ann  found  that  her  sales 
to  Mrs.  Ford  and  her  daughter  were  the  only  ones 
recorded  in  her  books.  Two  or  three  women  had 
drifted  in  at  various  times,  but  they  were  unknown  to 
Ann,  and  they  purchased  nothing.  Did  this  mean  that 


206  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

her  enterprise  was  doomed?  Ann  very  much  feared 
that  it  did,  but  she  would  not  accept  defeat  so  easily. 
With  the  help  of  Mrs.  Hill  she  increased  her  stock 
once  more  and  filled  her  windows  with  the  prettiest 
of  her  models.  As  well  be  hung  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb, 
she  thought.  And  if  she  were  doomed  to  go  under,  she 
wouldn't  tamely  sink  by  slow  degrees,  but  would  go 
down  gallantly  with  her  flags  flying,  and  with  a  grand 
and  final  splash. 

She  had  heard  no  further  word  of  the  case,  and 
knew  nothing  of  Vera's  intentions.  She  had  taken  all 
the  steps  which  James  Ford  had  advised,  and  now 
could  only  await  developments. 

Rhoda  Hemingway  had  gone  back  to  her  husband 
at  the  sheep-station  fifty  miles  inland,  but  Stephanie, 
her  eldest  daughter,  was  in  town  staying  with  Mrs. 
Ford.  She,  also,  bought  two  hats  when  her  grand- 
mother—who paid  the  bill— brought  her  into  Ann's 
shop  to  introduce  her.  But  Ann  couldn't  live  entirely 
on  the  purchases  made  by  the  Ford  family;  and  as  the 
second  week  dragged  on  with  only  one  other  cus- 
tomer, Ann  began  to  think  seriously  of  closing  the 
shop  altogether.  But  she  had  paid  the  rent  for  the  first 
three  months  in  advance,  and  she  herself  must  live 
somewhere— she  couldn't  leave  the  district  now  that 
this  action  was  pending,  and  she  might  as  well  die 
gamely.  So  she  continued  to  manufacture  pretty  hats, 
and  put  them  in  the  window,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
no  one  appeared  to  want  them.  On  Thursday  Mrs. 
Ford  had  asked  her  to  go  up  to  afternoon  tea  with 
them.  Stephanie  would  call  for  her  in  the  car. 

"Put  on  your  prettiest  hat  and  frock,  my  dear.  In 
spite  of  my  age,  I  haven't  lost  my  love  of  finery." 

Ann  thought  that  this  was  rather  a  strange  request, 


The  Fords  207 

but  after  her  shop  was  closed,  she  made  her  toilet  with 
extra  care;  chose  gloves,  shoes,  and  parasol  to  match 
her  frock;  and  then  looking  at  herself  in  the  glass, 
exclaimed  in  some  dismay,  "I  am  dressed  up.  I  might 
be  going  to  the  races,  or  a  garden  party!"  And  to  her 
greater  dismay,  on  her  arrival  with  Stephanie  in  the 
car,  she  found  that  she  was  going  to  a  party. 

"This  is  one  of  Granny's  jokes,"  said  pretty  Steph- 
anie, smiling  at  her.  "The  party  is  for  me,  and  for 
you— you'll  see  it  in  the  'Social  Notes'  of  tomorrow's 
paper— and  you'll  find  everything  you're  wearing 
chronicled,  and  chronicled  wrong." 

It  was  too  late  to  escape,  Ann  realized.  And  it 
would  be  a  poor  return  for  all  Mrs.  Ford's  kindness  to 
treat  her  so  rudely.  The  only  thing  to  do  was  to  face  it 
bravely.  So  with  her  head  held  high,  and  a  flush  that 
made  her  look  younger  and  sweeter  than  ever,  Ann 
walked  up  the  veranda  steps.  Only  one  or  two  guests 
had  arrived  as  yet.  These  were  the  intrepid  spirits 
who  always  anticipated  the  hour  specified  for  an 
"afternoon  tea"  in  Wairiri.  "So  horrid  to  be  late," 
they  said;  and  so  they  got  to  the  house  very  often 
while  the  flurried  hostess  was  putting  the  last  touches 
to  the  heavily-laden  tea-table  in  the  dining-room,  or— 
in  the  absence  of  a  cook— taking  the  last  batch  of  cakes 
out  of  the  oven.  Mrs.  Ford  introduced  Ann  to  these 
early  birds. 

"I'm  giving  this  little  party  for  Stephanie  and  Miss 
Merrill,  you  know.  I  want  her  to  meet  all  our  friends 
in  Wairiri.  It's  so  lonely  for  a  girl  here  if  she  doesn't 
know  every  one.  And  Miss  Merrill  has  been  so  enter- 
prising, and  has  such  sweet  things  in  her  hat  shop. 
Haven't  you  been  to  see  them?  Oh,  but  you  must  go. 
This  I've  got  on  is  one  of  her  models,  and  Stephanie's 


s>o8  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

too.  Isn't  that  a  sweet  one?  So  becoming  and  so 
simple." 

This  sort  of  thing  went  on  most  of  the  afternoon.  A 
fair  percentage  of  the  eighty  or  ninety  women  present 
Ann  had  already  met  on  the  racecourse  or  had  seen 
in  her  shop.  They  all  belonged  to  the  same  set— the 
wives  and  daughters  of  the  sheep-farmers,  the  lawyers, 
the  doctors,  and  the  bank  managers.  Ann  was  practi- 
cally the  only  "trade"  representative  at  the  party. 
They  took  part  in  competitions,  for  which  there  were 
prizes,  wandered  round  the  garden,  indulged  in  what 
the  paper  next  day  described  as  "social  chat,"  and  ate 
an  extraordinary  large  tea. 

Ann  discovered  that  at  least  one  of  these  functions 
took  place  every  week  in  Wairiri;  and  that  all  the 
same  women  attended  each  and  every  one.  She  won- 
dered how  the  supply  of  "social  chat"  held  out;  and 
then  suddenly  with  a  deepening  flush  she  remembered 
that  she  herself  had  probably  supplied  a  good  deal  of 
it  for  the  last  one,  and  was  supplying  more  for  this. 
But  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Ford  was  giving  the  entertain- 
ment in  her  honor,  and  throwing  her  thus  so  con- 
spicuously in  the  company  of  her  granddaughter,  was, 
she  realized,  the  quickest  and  most  efficacious  way  of 
taking  the  worst  of  the  sting  out  of  the  scandal.  There 
must  be  something  to  be  said  for  her  if  Mary  Ford 
made  so  much  fuss  of  her.  Mary  wasn't  a  fool,  or 
easily  taken  in. 

Ann  knew  before  the  afternoon  was  over  that  Mrs. 
Ford  had,  at  least  partially,  accomplished  her  object. 
Even  if  the  case  now  came  into  Court,  Ann  would 
have  a  few  partisans  who  would  not  believe  ill  of  her. 
They  were  for  the  most  part  very  warm-hearted,  and 
very  kind,  these  people;  but  they  were  inclined  to  be 


The  Fords  209 

rigid  in  their  views.  They  did  not  look  with  favor 
upon  girls  who  got  mixed  up  in  divorce  cases.  Still, 
they  were  now  prepared  to  follow  the  lead  Mary  Ford 
had  given  them,  and  to  reserve  judgment  until  they 
heard  further  evidence.  The  trouble  was,  that  a  small 
section  was  inclined  to  hail  her  as  a  martyr,  and  in- 
stead of  slighting  her,  to  make  a  fuss  of  her.  And  all 
Ann  wanted— except  in  her  hat  shop— was  to  be  left 
alone.  She  was  not  happy  at  present,  and  she  had  no 
aptitude  for  "social  chat."  She  had  enjoyed  the  week- 
end she  had  spent  with  the  Fords;  the  picnic  at  the 
shack;  and  she  hoped  that  she  would  see  more  of  them 
in  future,  for  they  were  genuinely  good  friends.  But 
to  accept  invitations  from  comparative  strangers  was 
altogether  a  different  matter. 

However,  she  could  always  plead  pressure  of  busi- 
ness. And  during  the  days  that  followed  she  was  able 
truthfully  to  do  this.  Her  little  showroom  was  now 
never  without  customers.  She  was  compelled  to  em- 
ploy another  hand  as  well  as  Mrs.  Hill,  and  all  three 
worked  "overtime"  in  the  evenings  as  well  as  during 
the  day. 

Business  was  "booming."  Before  Ann's  new  goods 
arrived  from  London  she  had  cabled  for  more  and 
had  included  in  her  order  smart  and  inexpensive 
frocks.  Whatever  happened  in  the  future,  she  was  now 
convinced  her  business  would  not  fail. 


XII 

A  Lover,  and  a  Friend 


i. 

ONE  morning  early  in  March,  when  Ann  and  Mrs. 
Hill  were  busy  in  the  showroom,  a  man  entered.  Ann, 
leaving  the  customer  to  whom  she  had  been  speaking, 
advanced  towards  him,  and  found  herself  face  to  face 
with  Gerald  Waring. 

"I  got  back  last  night,"  he  said,  moderating  his 
voice,  so  that  no  one  else  but  Ann  could  hear  him, 
"and  I  want  to  see  you!  We  can't  talk  here— come  out 
to  morning  tea  with  me." 

Ann  glanced  at  Mrs.  Hill,  and  the  girl  who  was  try- 
ing on  hats  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"You  can  leave  some  one  in  charge,"  went  on  War- 
ing. "I'll  go  on  to  the  Imperial  and  engage  a  table  on 
the  balcony.  Come  straight  upstairs  through  the 
lounge.  Say  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  time." 

"Our  talk  must  be  'without  prejudice,'  as  the 
lawyers  say,"  said  Ann. 

"You've  had  some  experience  of  the  law  lately,  I 
hear." 

Ann  flushed,  but  she  met  his  eyes  quite  bravely. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "Did  you  know  about  it  be- 
fore . . .  before  you  left  Australia?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  heard  it  last  night  in  the  club.  Probably  an  in- 

210 


A  Lover,  and  a  Friend  211 

correct  rumor.  It's  important  for  me  to  know  the 
truth." 

"I  want  to  know  it,  too,"  answered  Ann.  "Will  you 
be  truthful  with  me?" 

"As  far  as  ...  as  I  can  be,"  he  returned.  "One  can't 
always  divulge  all  one  knows." 

"No,"  said  Ann  soberly.  She  hesitated  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  made  up  her  mind.  "Go  now,  and  I'll 
join  you  in  about  ten  minutes,"  she  said. 

He  left  the  shop,  and  she  turned  again  to  the  cus- 
tomer, who  was  still  undecided  as  to  which  of  two  hats 
she  should  buy.  The  girl  tried  them  both  on  again. 
Ann  thought  the  less  expensive  one  the  more  becom- 
ing, and  said  so.  The  buyer  looked  relieved. 

"I  didn't  want  to  give  quite  so  much,"  she  said. 

"The  cheaper  hat  suits  you  best,"  said  Ann,  "and 
is  really  just  as  smart." 

The  purchase  was  completed,  the  girl  made  her  way 
out,  and  Ann  was  free.  Within  ten  minutes  she  was 
walking  down  the  main  street  towards  the  Imperial. 
Summer  had  not  yet  merged  into  autumn,  and  it  was 
very  hot.  At  the  end  of  the  street,  across  the  Puawa 
bridge  one  saw  the  shoulder  of  the  big  hill  tawny  and 
sun-dried  against  the  blue  sky.  Men  in  their  shirt- 
sleeves drove  motor-lorries  through  the  town;  women 
in  light-colored  frocks  were  stepping  out  of  their  cars 
in  front  of  the  shops;  some  Maoris  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  pavement  eating  crayfish;  and  there  were  groups 
of  men— some  in  riding  clothes  with  dogs  beside  them 
—talking  together  outside  the  tobacconists,  the  bars, 
and  in  front  of  banks.  A  good  deal  of  the  business  of 
Wairiri— the  buying  and  selling  of  stock  or  produce, 
engaging  shepherds  or  drovers— was  conducted  in  this 
way,  in  the  street. 


212  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

Ann  was  glad  that  on  her  way  she  did  not  meet  any 
one  she  knew.  She  wanted  to  learn  news  of  Vera  from 
Waring,  but  she  had  no  desire  to  become  the  subject 
of  further  gossip.  While  it  was  harmless  enough  in 
general  to  have  a  cup  of  tea  in  the  morning  with  a 
man  friend— every  one  in  Wairiri  had  this  "morning 
tea"  either  at  home  or  somewhere  in  town— she  knew 
that  in  her  case  such  a  proceeding  might  be  miscon- 
strued. The  balcony  at  the  Imperial  was  a  favorite 
rendezvous,  but  fortunately  it  was  now  well  after 
eleven,  and  most  of  the  tea-drinkers  would  have  de- 
parted by  this  time. 

In  point  of  fact,  besides  Waring's,  only  two  of  the 
tables  were  occupied  when  Ann  arrived,  and  there 
was  no  one  on  the  balcony  whom  she  recognized.  And 
no  one  paid  any  attention  to  her  as  she  crossed  over, 
and  sat  down  opposite  to  Waring. 

He  ordered  the  tea,  talked  of  his  journey  up  from 
Hawkeston  by  car,  the  weather,  and  small  local  gossip, 
until  the  waiter  had  departed. 

"Now  what's  all  this  cock-and-bull  story  about  you 
and  Dick  Holmes?"  he  asked. 

"Perhaps  you  know  as  much  as  I  do,"  she  answered. 

"How  should  I  know?" 

"Didn't  you  meet  Mrs.  Holmes  in  Sydney?" 

"Yes,  I  ran  across  her  one  day  in  Pitt  Street." 

"Is  she  still  there?  In  Sydney,  I  mean." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  idea." 

"Haven't  you  heard  from  her?" 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  sharply. 

"Why  should  I  hear?"  he  asked. 

"You  were . . .  were  great  friends,  weren't  you?" 

"Yes,  but  I'm  afraid  I  don't  bother  much  about 


A  Lover,  and  a  Friend  213 

writing  to  any  one.  I  didn't  stay  more  than  a  week  in 
Sydney.  It  was  too  hot.  I  went  on  to  Melbourne, 
found  that  hotter,  and  so  crossed  to  Tasmania.  I've 
been  there  nearly  all  the  time." 

"Where's  Mrs.  Holmes  now?" 

"My  good  child,  how  should  I  know?  I  presume 
she's  still  in  Sydney,  as  she  doesn't  seem  to  have  come 
back  to  New  Zealand." 

Ann  was  silent.  She  couldn't  go  on  questioning 
him  like  this  unless  she  wished  him  to  realize  that  she 
knew  his  secret.  She  could  only  fill  in  the  blanks  as 
best  she  might.  When  Vera  followed  him  to  Sydney, 
had  he  gone  off  leaving  no  address?  That  would  be 
a  perfectly  simple  method  of  procedure— rather  cruel 
perhaps;  but  Ann  believed  that  before  his  departure 
from  Tirau  he  had  made  it  plain  to  Vera  that  things 
were  at  an  end  between  them.  If  Vera  wouldn't  accept 
this  ultimatum  from  him— if  she  had  persisted  in  her 
resolve  to  see  him  again— hadn't  she  brought  this 
upon  her  own  head?  And  yet  in  her  heart  Ann  was 
conscious  of  pity  for  the  forsaken  woman.  How  ter- 
rible to  be  driven  to  pursue  a  man  in  this  fashion- 
to  lose  all  pride,  all  self-respect.  And  was  this  divorce 
action  her  last  desperate  effort  to  regain  her  lover? 
Was  she  mad  enough  to  believe  that  a  man  who  had 
tired  would  come  back  to  her  and  marry  her?  But 
then  it  was  more  than  likely  that  Vera  would  not 
allow  herself  to  believe  that  his  love  had  grown  cold. 
In  all  probability  Waring  had  used  the  argument  that 
it  was  for  her  sake  he  was  giving  her  up.  That  they 
mustn't  run  the  risk  of  detection.  A  woman  in  love 
was  fool  enough  to  believe  anything!  But  Ann 
couldn't  help  ranging  herself  on  the  forsaken  woman's 
side  against  the  faithless  lover.  Not  that  she  held  any 


214  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

brief  for  Vera— far  from  it!  But  while  Waring's  con- 
duct in  the  whole  affair  seemed  to  Ann  much  the  more 
despicable,  yet  it  was  Vera  who  would  inevitably 
suffer  the  consequences.  Waring  merely  ended  an 
intrigue  which  had  lost  interest  for  him,  and  escaped 
unhurt. 

"Well,  are  you  going  to  tell  me  what's  at  the  bottom 
of  this  ridiculous  rumor?" 

"It  is  more  than  a  rumor.  It's  a  fact.  Mrs.  Holmes 
is  bringing  an  action  for  divorce  against  her  husband, 
and  is  using  my  . . .  my  name  in  the  case." 

"Vera  must  be  mad." 

"You  don't  believe  she's  justified?" 

"My  good  girl,  I'm  not  altogether  a  fool.  Holmes 
isn't  that  sort  of  man,  and  he  loves  his  wife.  And  I've 
enough  judgment  of  character  to  know  that  you've 
got— what  shall  I  say?— moral  principles." 

"Much  better  women  than  I  am  have . . .  have  not 
always  acted  as  they  should " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Not  in  that  sort  of  fashion.  You're  too  honest,  and 
you'd  never  behave  . . .  shabbily." 

Ann's  eyes  were  on  her  plate,  where  her  fingers 
crumbled  her  cake  to  pieces. 

"You  credit  me  with  too  much  virtue,"  she  said  at 
last  with  some  difficulty.  "I'm  as  liable  to  yield  to ... 
to  temptation  as  any  other  woman." 

"No,  pardon  me.  You're  as  liable  as  any  other 
woman— perhaps  a  bit  more  liable  than  most— to  feel 
the  strength  of  temptation.  But  you're  not  weak.  And 
you're  not  likely  to  do  anything  that  you'd  look  upon 
as  underhand  or  mean." 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  went  on: 

"There's  one  way  to  put  an  end  to  all  this  talk— 


A  Lover,  and  a  Friend  215 

marry  me.  Vera  couldn't  go  on  with  the  case  after 
that.  There  wouldn't  be  the  least  likelihood  of  her 
getting  a  decree  if  she  did.  She'd  only  succeed  in 
making  a  fool  of  herself,  and  losing  every  friend  she's 
got." 

And  with  Waring  married  the  whole  object  of  the 
divorce  would  vanish.  Ann  saw  that  clearly.  However 
jealous  and  revengeful  Vera  might  feel,  she  would 
recognize  the  fact  that  she  could  gain  nothing  but 
social  ostracism  from  bringing  the  case.  As  the  wife 
of  one  of  the  wealthiest  sheep-farmers  in  the  district, 
Ann's  position  would  be  very  different  to  that  of  a 
friendless,  unknown  girl. 

"I  feel  more  than  a  little . . .  grateful  to  you  for 
that,"  said  Ann.  "It  makes  me  like  you  better  than 
I've  ever  done  before.  But  I'm  sorry— I  can't  marry 
you." 

"I'm  utterly— unattractive  to  you  then?" 

"No  you're  not.  Oh,  it's  terribly  difficult  to  explain. 
I  can't  help  being  attracted  to  you— in  a  way.  And  yet 
I  know  that  marriage  should  mean  more  than  that. 
There  should  be  some  deeper  sympathy  and  affection. 
I  haven't  got  that  for  you.  Please  don't  let  us  dis- 
cuss it." 

"Very  well,  we  won't  talk  about  it  any  more  for  the 
present.  Have  another  cup  of  tea?  Do  you  mind  if  I 
smoke?" 

She  was  glad  that  he  could  resume  a  lighter  tone, 
and  after  a  moment,  when  he  began  to  chaff  her  about 
her  business,  Ann  felt  herself  on  safer  ground. 

"They've  asked  me  to  play  in  the  Wairiri  polo  team 
at  the  tournament  in  Hawkeston  at  the  end  of  next 
week,"  said  Waring  later. 

"Are  you  going  to?" 


216  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"I  think  so.  By  the  way,  you  remember  young 
Marsh  at  Tirau,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Ann. 

"He's  in  the  team." 

"Is  he?  I  thought  he  was  droving  or  something 
now." 

Her  voice  was  quite  level  and  unconcerned.  She 
had  heard  nothing  of  Rodney  for  the  past  few  weeks- 
had  put  him  out  of  her  thoughts  as  much  as  possible. 
But  the  sudden  longing  to  speak  of  him,  to  learn 
something  concerning  him,  was  at  this  moment  over- 
whelming in  its  intensity. 

"He's  apparently  been  doing  extraordinarily  well 
in  stock  dealing.  But  I  don't  fancy  he'll  keep  his 
money  long.  He's  gambling  pretty  heavily " 

"Oh!— losing?" 

"Not  so  far.  He's  had  phenomenal  luck,  so  they  say 
—takes  tremendous  chances,  and  invariably  wins.  He's 
getting  quite  a  reputation  as  a  plunger." 

"I  suppose  a  gambler  nearly  always  loses  in  the 
end." 

"That  reckless  type  does.  The  luck  can't  hold  for 
ever." 

The  conversation  with  reference  to  Rodney  Marsh 
seemed  likely  to  come  to  an  end.  Ann  wondered  des- 
perately how  she  could  contrive  to  continue  it  with- 
out making  her  interest  in  the  young  man's  doings 
too  apparent. 

"I  remember  on  my  first  night  at  Tirau,  you  proph- 
esied that  the  Wairiri  girls  would  be  tumbling  over 
one  another  to  dance  with  him  at  the  polo  ball." 

Waring  laughed. 

"So  they  would  have  been,  if  he'd  come  with  us. 


A  Lover,  and  a  Friend  217 

He'll  probably  have  a  still  bigger  success  in  Hawkes- 
ton.  He's  quite  a  man  of  means  now." 

"Really!"  said  Ann,  making  a  gallant  effort  to  an- 
swer his  smile.  She  had  learned  quite  enough— too 
much.  She  wouldn't  talk  of  Rodney  any  more. 

She  made  up  her  mind  to  say  "good-by"  to  Waring 
on  the  balcony.  She  wouldn't  let  him  escort  her  back 
to  the  shop,  and  she  would  not  promise  to  meet  him 
again. 

"You  don't  get  rid  of  me  quite  so  easily,  you  know," 
Waring  warned  her.  "There's  no  law  to  prevent  my 
recommending  my  lady  friends  to  buy  their  hats  at 
your  emporium,  and  coming  in  to  advise  them  as  to 
their  selection,  when  I  happen  to  be  in  Wairiri." 

"Of  course  there  isn't,"  she  answered.  "The  more 
the  merrier.  I  always  welcome  business." 

"Are  you  really  making  a  good  thing  out  of  it?" 

"I  should  think  so.  I'll  be  one  of  the  leading 
trades-women  of  the  town  before  I've  finished." 

"You'll  be  married  long  before  that  happens." 

Ann  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  answered  soberly,  "there's  no  likelihood 
of  that." 

"I  can  tell  you  the  name  of  the  man  you  are  going 
to  marry,"  said  Waring  coolly. 

But  she  refused  to  be  led  into  any  further  discussion 
on  the  matter.  She  rose,  and  saying  good-by,  she 
thanked  him  for  the  tea,  and  left  him. 


2. 

Waring  stayed  for  one  night  in  Wairiri,  before  go- 
ing through  to  Hawkeston  for  the  polo  tournament, 
at  the  end  of  the  following  week.  He  called  to  see  Ann 


218  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

in  the  afternoon,  and  tried  to  persuade  her  to  dine 
with  him.  But  Ann  was  obdurate  in  her  refusal  to 
meet  him  anywhere  outside  the  precincts  of  her  own 
establishment.  And  then,  fearing  that  he  might  call 
on  her  after  her  shop  was  closed,  she  invited  Mrs.  Hill 
to  accompany  her  to  the  cinema  in  the  evening. 

Being  over  a  hundred  miles  from  one  of  the  main- 
line railway  junctions,  Wairiri  seldom  had  a  chance 
of  seeing  the  dramatic  and  musical  comedy  companies 
which  visited  the  larger  centers  of  the  Dominion, 
after  touring  in  Australia.  It  was  difficult  for  any 
theatrical  organization  to  transport  scenery  and  com- 
pany so  far,  entirely  by  motor-lorries  and  cars.  Conse- 
quently a  visit  to  the  "pictures"  was  the  sole  nightly 
entertainment  of  the  little  town;  and  there  were  two 
rival  firms  exhibiting  films. 

Ann  decided  this  evening  to  book  seats  at  the  less 
fashionable  of  the  two  cinemas.  It  wasn't  very  likely 
that  Waring  would  visit  either  of  the  theaters;  he'd 
be  much  more  likely  to  be  playing  bridge  or  poker 
at  the  club.  But  in  case  he  did  call  at  the  shop  and 
find  her  out,  there  was  a  chance  that  he  would  stroll 
along  to  the  Coliseum,  where  so  many  residents  of 
Wairiri  spent  their  evenings.  Consequently  Ann 
avoided  the  Coliseum,  and  went  to  the  Regent  in- 
stead. 

Here  they  were  featuring  "Snowy"  Baker  in  an  out- 
door film.  Ann  found  his  feats  of  horsemanship  quite 
thrilling,  and  she  was  glad  she  had  chosen  this  par- 
ticular theatre.  She  had  no  desire  to  see  one  of  the 
usual,  lurid  Hollywood  dramas  of  crime  and  passion. 
Here  was  something  real— a  man  who  rode  with  pluck 
and  daring.  And  Ann  still  cherished  an  ardent  desire 
to  become  an  accomplished  horsewoman.  She  had  no 


A  Lover,  and  a  Friend  219 

chance  at  present  of  indulging  in  any  sort  of  out-door 
amusement  beyond  an  occasional  dip  in  the  surf  from 
the  town  bathing-sheds.  But  later  perhaps!  And  of 
course  as  her  thoughts  strayed  in  this  fashion  back  to 
her  first  riding  lesson,  the  vision  of  Rodney  Marsh 
walking  at  Nigger's  shoulder  was  a  clear,  little  sun- 
bright  picture  in  her  mind. 

Mrs.  Hill's  husband  stood  in  the  vestibule,  waiting 
to  escort  his  wife  home,  at  the  close  of  the  perform- 
ance. They  would  see  Ann  safely  to  her  door  on  their 
way.  But  as  he  joined  them  Ann  suddenly  looked  up 
to  discover  Rodney  Marsh's  eyes  upon  her.  He  also, 
it  seemed,  had  been  amongst  the  audience.  A  move- 
ment of  the  crowd  brought  them  nearer  to  one  an- 
other, and  a  little  apart  from  the  Hills. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Ann.  "I  suppose  you're  go- 
ing on  to  Hawkeston  tomorrow?" 

Her  voice  showed  no  trace  of  anything  save  a 
natural  friendliness. 

"Yes,"  he  answered;  and  then  after  a  moment  went 
on  in  a  lower  tone:  "Are  you  with  a  party?" 

"I  brought  Mrs.  Hill.  She  and  her  husband  are 
standing  over  there.  They're  waiting  to  see  me  home." 

"Let  them  go  on.  I'm  walking  your  way." 

"Very  well." 

Ann's  voice  was  still  perfectly  natural,  but  she  knew 
that  her  heart  was  beating  faster.  She  told  herself  she 
was  a  fool  to  assent  to  this  arrangement.  What  good 
could  come  of  any  renewed  intimacy  with  Rodney 
Marsh?  And  yet  the  temptation  to  be  with  him— to 
talk  to  him  again— if  only  for  a  few  minutes,  was  too 
great  to  be  resisted. 

She  signaled  to  the  Hills. 

"A  friend  is  seeing  me  home.  Don't  wait." 


220  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"You're  sure  you're  all  right?"  said  loyal  and 
anxious  Mrs.  Hill. 

"Quite.  Good  night." 

The  Hills  went  off,  and  Ann  moved  beside  Rodney 
out  on  to  the  crowded  pavement.  They  walked  in 
silence  until  they  were  clear  of  the  stream  of  pedes- 
trians. 

"I  was  rather  surprised  to  see  you  at  the  pictures," 
said  Ann,  at  last,  making  a  small  attempt  at  conver- 
sation. 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  can't  quite  imagine  you  as 
a  film  fan." 

"I'm  not.  I  went  tonight  to  see  Snowy  Baker.  He's 
a  fine  rider,  and  the  horse  he  rode  was  bred  in  New 
Zealand.  He  took  it  over  to  California  from  Aus- 
tralia." 

"Really." 

The  conversation  languished.  Then  all  at  once  Ann 
halted. 

"This  isn't  my  way  home,"  she  said. 

"Never  mind.  It's  quite  early." 

"It's  certainly  a  lovely  night  for  a  walk,"  agreed 
Ann,  weakly.  "I'm  always  glad  to  get  out  in  the  fresh 
air  after  being  cooped  up  in  my  shop  all  day." 

"How  are  you  doing?" 

"Splendidly.  Making  money  hand  over  fist." 

"I've  been  lucky  too." 

Suddenly  Ann  laughed. 

"We're  both  rather  good  at  bragging,  aren't  we?" 

Her  laugh  relieved  the  tension  between  them,  and 
they  began  to  talk  more  easily. 

"You  must  be  doing  well,"  she  chaffed  him,  "if  you 
can  afford  an  expensive  game  like  polo." 


A  Lover,  and  a  Friend  221 

.« 
"There  isn't  much  expense  connected  with  it  here. 

I  bought  one  of  my  best  ponies  out  of  the  Pound  for 
six  shillings,  and  the  other  two  haven't  cost  me  much 
more  than  a  fiver  apiece." 

"I  wish  I  could  buy  a  pony  for  six  shillings.  But 
what  about  all  your  expenses  in  Hawkestone?" 

"They  won't  amount  to  much.  The  Hawkeston 
team  are  putting  us  up.  We're  to  be  billeted  at  their 
homes." 

"Shall  you  like  that?" 

"I'd  rather  stay  at  an  hotel,  but  the  polo  ground  is 
in  the  country.  It  would  mean  a  lot  of  motoring.  And 
I've  met  most  of  the  team.  They're  real  good  chaps." 

Her  first  embarrassment  had  vanished.  Now,  she 
told  herself,  that  it  was  a  perfectly  natural  proceeding 
to  go  for  a  walk  with  an  old  acquaintance  on  such  a 
glorious  night.  They  had  turned  to  the  left  along  the 
road  leading  to  the  beach.  The  bright,  full  moon 
shone  down  from  a  clear  sky  on  the  small,  white- 
painted  bridge  across  the  creek,  and  turned  the  stream 
to  silver.  Beyond  the  rolling  sandhills  they  could  see 
the  gleam  of  the  bay  and  hear  the  roar  of  the  breakers. 
The  road  was  quite  deserted,  for  they  had  left  the 
town  behind  them. 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  playing  in  the  polo 
team?" 

"I  saw  your  name  in  the  paper.  But  I  knew  before 
that.  Mr.  Waring  told  me." 

"You've  been  seeing  him,  have  you?" 

"Yes.  I  had  morning  tea  with  him  when  he  got  back 
from  Australia." 

"He's  in  town  tonight.  Have  you  met  him?" 

"For  a  few  minutes  this  afternoon.  He  called  at  my 
shop." 


222  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

•"What  did  he  do  that  for?" 

"He  was  kind  enough  to  ask  me  to  dinner.  I  didn't 
want  to  go." 

"Is  he  in  love  with  you,  too?" 

"I  don't  know  what  right  you  have  to  ask  me  such 
stupid,  personal  questions." 

"Can't  you  answer  them?" 

"Certainly  if  I  choose  to,"  she  replied,  with  a  little 
flare  of  spirit. 

"And  you  don't  choose?" 

"No." 

"That's  all  right.  You've  answered  the  question." 

She  stopped. 

"Rodney,  I'll  go  home  if  you  can't  behave  decently 
to  me." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  he  said  at  last,  rather  grudgingly. 
"You  can't  expect  me  to  have  such  beautiful  manners 
as  Waring." 

"Why  can't  I?" 

"I  never  went  to  an  expensive  school." 

"Consideration  for  the  feelings  of  other  people 
hasn't  anything  to  do  with  expensive  schools." 

"And  has  Waring  shown  much  consideration  for 
the  feelings  of  others?  For  the  boss,  for  instance?" 

What  did  he  mean  by  that,  she  wondered?  How 
much  did  he  know? 

"I  didn't  go  out  with  Mr.  Waring,  and  I'm  here 
now  with  you,"  she  said,  "so  I  don't  think  we  need 
discuss  him  any  more.  Tell  me  about  yourself.  How's 
Nigger?  Is  he  in  training?" 

"Yes.  I  saw  him  today.  He's  entered  for  the  autumn 
steeplechase  here,  and  then  I'm  taking  him  to  Christ- 
church." 


A  Lover,  and  a  Friend  223 

"I  won  quite  a  big  sum  at  the  last  races,  thanks  to 
you.  They  say  you  made  a  lot  of  money,  too." 

"What  else  do  they  say?" 

"That  you  could  do  very  well  as  a  stock-buyer  if 
you  wanted  to,  but  that  you're  reckless  and  you're 
gambling  too  much." 

"That's  my  own  business,  isn't  it?" 

"Of  course.  You  asked  me  what  people  were  saying, 
and  I  told  you." 

They  had  reached  the  last  ridge  of  the  sandhills, 
and  below  them  lay  the  wide  sweep  of  the  bay.  The 
white  breakers  tossing  in  the  moonlight  stretched  in 
a  ten-mile  curve  to  the  hazy  line  of  the  ranges  away 
to  the  right.  One  could  see  the  glow  of  a  bush-fire 
burning  in  one  of  the  far  distant  gullies.  Nearer  at 
hand,  on  the  left,  the  silent  mass  of  the  Puawa  Hill 
showed  clearly  against  the  stars.  A  few  yellow  spots  of 
light  at  its  base  revealed  little  dwellings  on  the  beach. 
Out  in  the  roadstead  the  hull  of  a  solitary  ocean  tramp 
was  visible. 

"Sit  down— the  sand's  quite  dry  and  warm,"  said 
Marsh  abruptly. 

Ann  hesitated. 

"Only  for  a  few  minutes  then.  I  must  go  home." 

"You  seem  to  be  a  bit  more  careful  of  your  reputa- 
tion with  me  than  you  were  with  Holmes." 

"I've  told  you  he  was  terribly  unhappy— I  wanted 
to  help  him." 

"Do  you  think  I'm  happy?" 

She  had  seated  herself  beside  him,  her  hands  clasped 
round  her  knees. 

"Your  unhappiness  is  probably  of  your  own  mak- 
ing. His  was  quite  undeserved." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment  and  then  he  said: 


224  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"What's  happened  about. . .  the  case?" 

"Nothing.  No  one  has  heard  anything  further  from 
Mrs.  Holmes.  I  suppose  it  will  come  on  later." 

"You  take  it  very  calmly." 

"I  dread  it  terribly,  but  I  try  not  to  think  about  it. 
I'm  working  hard,  and  I  know  that  here  in  Wairiri 
there  are  a  few  people  at  least  who  are  prepared  to 
believe  the  best  of  me." 

"If  they  saw  you  here— now— with  me,  they  mightn't 
be  so  sure." 

"No . . .  They  mightn't." 

"Why  did  you  come?" 

She  was  letting  the  dry  sand  run  through  her 
fingers,  and  she  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"Because  I'm  weak,  I  suppose,"  she  said  at  last. 
"I'm  rather  lonely,  and  I  wanted  to  see  you,  and  talk 
to  you." 

He  caught  her  hand  and  held  it.  Then  he  laid  his 
face  down  against  it,  as  he  had  done  that  day  when  he 
said  he  loved  her. 

"No,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  don't  want  you  to  do 
that.  You've  made  it  clear  that  marriage  isn't  possible 
for  us,  and  I've  come  to  see  that  you  are  right.  But  we 
can  still  be  friends,  Rodney,  as  long  as  we  don't  mix 
up  friendship  with  . . .  with  anything  else." 

He  released  her  hand,  and  sat  up.  She  hesitated  for 
a  moment,  and  then  she  said: 

"Can't  you  tell  me  why  you're  unhappy?" 

"I  don't  know.  Nothing  seems  worth  while.  I 
gamble— but  I  don't  care  whether  I  win  or  lose." 

"I  wish  you'd  promise  to  live  more . . .  more 
steadily." 

"Why?  What  does  it  signify?  I'm  not  responsible 
to  any  one  for  the  way  I  live." 


A  Lover,  and  a  Friend  225 

"I  don't  think  that  any  of  us  are  quite  free  agents. 
We  owe  something  to  the  community  and  to  our- 
selves." 

"Well,  it  doesn't  make  two-pennyworth  of  differ- 
ence to  you,  anyhow." 

"Yes,  it  does,"  she  answered  stoutly.  "As  long  as 
you're  my  friend,  I  want  to  be  proud  of  your  success 
in  life." 

"Better  not  think  of  me  one  way  or  the  other.  If 
I'm  going  to  the  devil,  as  you  seem  to  imagine,  it's 
my  own  affair  entirely."  He  got  up.  "It's  time  we 
were  getting  back." 

"Yes,"  said  Ann  cheerfully.  "Perhaps  it  is." 

If  he  had  hurt  her  by  his  abrupt  termination  of 
their  talk  together,  she  would  not  let  him  see  it.  She 
had  bared  her  heart  sufficiently  to  him.  She  would 
hide  it  in  future.  So,  as  they  walked  back  side  by  side, 
she  chatted  quite  naturally  about  her  business,  Nig- 
ger's chances  for  the  Autumn  Meeting,  and  the  polo 
tournament  in  Hawkeston.  Then,  at  her  door,  she 
wished  him  good  night,  in  a  friendly  matter-of-fact 
tone,  and  told  him  she  had  enjoyed  the  walk  very 
much. 

But  she  stuffed  a  large  pocket  handkerchief  under 
her  pillow,  and  it  was  rather  crushed  and  damp  be- 
fore she  finally  fell  asleep.  For  she  knew  she  had 
reached  the  last  chapter  of  her  own  foolish  romance, 
and  that  there  could  be  no  "happy  ending." 


XIII 

Stephanie 


i. 

DURING  the  following  three  weeks  Ann  had  no  time 
to  think  of  anything  except  her  hat  shop.  The  new 
goods  had  arrived  from  London,  and  she  and  her  two 
assistants  were  kept  hard  at  work  from  early  morning 
till  late  at  night. 

Ford's  prediction  that  all  the  gossip  about  her 
would  turn  out  to  be  a  good  advertisement  was  prov- 
ing correct.  But  Ann  knew  that  if  it  had  not  been  for 
his  wife's  championship  of  her,  the  business  would 
have  stood  very  little  chance  of  survival.  As  it  was,  the 
people  who  were  convinced  of  her  innocence  showed 
their  sympathy  by  patronizing  her  shop.  The  less 
charitable  ones— those  who  were  inclined  to  believe 
there  could  be  no  smoke  without  fire— were  also 
amongst  her  customers.  They  were  curious  to  see  her; 
and  thus  Ann  reaped  a  harvest  from  both  the  "fors" 
and  "againsts"— who  were  at  any  rate  agreed  upon 
one  point— that  the  hats  and  frocks  at  "Ann's"  were 
quite  the  smartest  in  town. 

She  had  made  a  profit-sharing  agreement  with  Mrs. 
Hill,  and  the  new  girl,  Ruth  Atkins,  and  consequently 
they  worked  long  hours  quite  willingly. 

Ann  had  now  to  think  of  finding  some  other  abode 
for  herself.  The  room  behind  the  shop  must  be  used 

226 


Stephanie  227 

entirely  as  a  workroom  very  soon.  Still,  as  the  weeks 
rushed  by— filled  with  hard  work  as  they  were,  they 
seemed  to  fly— Ann  heard  no  further  news  of  the  case. 
She  had  seen  nothing  either  of  Rodney  or  of  Waring 
since  their  return  from  the  polo  tournament.  But  she 
received  a  letter  from  Dick  Holmes  in  which  he  spoke 
of  both  men.  He  had  written,  enclosing  the  money 
for  the  children's  school  fees  in  January. 

"I'm  not  going  to  thank  you  again  for  all  you  have 
done  for  me,"  he  wrote.  "God  knows  what  would 
have  happened  to  the  poor  kids  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
you.  And  as  for  myself— well,  you  brought  me  back 
to  sanity  through  the  worst  night  of  my  life.  Now 
that  I'm  more  normal  again  I  can  scarcely  realize  that 
I  was  so  crazed  as  to  believe  death  was  the  only  way 
out  for  me.  Nothing  in  life  is  really  so  terrible  that 
one  can't  fight  it.  And  the  very  fact  of  facing  one's 
troubles  gives  one  fresh  courage.  It  would  be  absurd 
to  say  I'm  happy— I'm  not.  But  financially  things  are 
straightening  out  for  me— Waring  has  been  no  end  of 
a  brick  in  putting  matters  to  a  certain  extent  right  for 
me  with  the  bank.  He's  a  real  good  friend  if  ever 
there  was  one.  As  for  Vera,  I've  heard  no  word  of 
her  except  indirectly  through  Miller.  She  is  still  in 
Sydney  apparently,  and  has  given  no  further  instruc- 
tions for  proceeding  with  the  case.  I  used  to  think 
that  nothing  in  the  world  could  ever  weaken  my  love 
for  my  wife.  But  sometimes  now  I  begin  to  wonder 
if  it's  strong  enough  to  stand  the  strain.  To  serve 
those  damned  papers  on  me,  and  to  leave  us— you  and 
me— on  the  rack  in  this  way  seems  to  me  the  essence 
of  cruelty— and  cruelty,  to  me,  is  the  unforgivable  sin. 
And  to  let  all  these  months  go  by  without  a  sign  or  a 
word  to  her  own  babies.  Can  she  have  no  heart  at 


228  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

all?  Thank  heaven  Biddy  and  Jo  are  well  and  happy 
at  Mrs.  Marley's,  though  they're  often  homesick  and 
are  looking  forward  to  their  holidays.  I  suppose  I 
could  have  them  here,  if  I  could  get  some  motherly 
soul  to  house-keep  for  me  for  a  few  weeks.  It  would 
be  great  to  have  them  with  me  for  a  short  time,  and 
it  might  possibly  be  arranged,  for  Waring  thinks  he 
could  get  his  married  couple  to  stay  here  over  the 
holidays.  He'll  most  probably  be  away  again  then. 
He's  going  to  Wellington  on  business.  There's  some 
talk  of  his  cutting  up  Kopu.  The  Government  may 
take  part  of  the  place  over  for  closer  settlement. 

"The  polo  team  did  well  in  Hawkeston,  and  War- 
ing seems  rather  amused  that  Rodney  made  such  a 
hit  with  everybody  during  the  tournament.  Appar- 
ently the  women  made  no  end  of  a  fuss  of  him.  He's  a 
good-looking  lad,  and  I've  always  thought  a  lot  of 
him,  though  lately  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  he's 
avoided  me.  I'm  quite  sure  this  isn't  because  of  my 
changed  circumstances.  He  isn't  the  sort  to  desert  the 
sinking  ship.  In  fact  he  very  generously  offered  to  stay 
on  for  next  to  nothing,  but  that  wouldn't  have  helped 
me,  except  that  I'd  have  liked  his  companionship,  so 
I  made  him  take  this  droving  job.  Perhaps  it's  only 
my  imagination  that  he's  changed.  When  one's  posi- 
tion is  altered  one's  apt  to  fancy  slights  when  they 
aren't  intended,  I  think.  Not  that  I've  had  any  to  put 
up  with.  Everybody's  been  no  end  kind  to  me." 

Ann  read  this  letter  with  a  little  pang  of  something 
that  she  realized  was  very  like  jealousy.  Yet  she  was 
generous  enough  to  be  glad  that  Rodney  had  been  as 
Holmes  put  it,  "made  a  fuss  of."  And  though  they 
were  never  likely  to  be  more  than  friends  in  future, 
she  was  conscious  of  a  little  thrill  of  pride  in  hearing 


Stephanie  229 

of  his  success.  The  remarks  concerning  Waring  gave 
her  some  food  for  thought.  Was  the  help  that, he  had 
extended  to  Holmes  given  by  way  of  conscience 
money?  Hardly  that,  for  she  recognized  quite  clearly 
that  Waring  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  be  troubled  by 
pangs  of  conscience  with  regard  to  anything  that  had 
happened  between  himself  and  Vera.  Moral  scruples 
did  not  bother  him.  Yet  in  his  way,  he  was  attached 
to  Dick  Holmes,  and,  it  was  clear,  that  he  would  do 
all  in  his  power  to  help  him.  Human  nature  was  an 
odd  mixture!  Very  few  people  were  actually  pure 
white  or  jet  black.  A  varying  shade  of  gray  was  the 
normal  hue  of  most  men  and  women. 


The  autumn  had  definitely  come,  and  still  Vera 
made  no  sign. 

In  spite  of  the  brave  face  Ann  showed  to  the  world, 
she  dreaded  more  and  more  the  prospect  of  being 
publicly  pilloried  in  the  Divorce  Court.  And  the 
strain  of  the  hard  work  entailed  by  her  increasing 
business,  the  little  hidden  grief  of  heartache,  and  the 
consciousness  of  this  sword  of  Damocles  suspended 
above  her  head,  all  combined  to  wear  her  out.  She 
was  thinner,  whiter,  and  more  fragile  than  she  had 
been  formerly. 

Life  in  the  little  town  flowed  on  quite  evenly. 
There  was  a  nip  of  frost  in  the  morning  and  evening 
air;  or  there  were  days  of  driving  rain.  The  willows  by 
the  river  were  turning  yellow.  Golf  had  begun  again, 
and  hunting  was  commencing. 

Rhoda  Hemingway  made  an  effort  to  induce  Ann 
to  accompany  her  to  the  big  afternoon  tea  which  she 


230  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

gave  at  the  Golf  Club  House  on  the  opening  day.  But 
Ann  felt  too  self-conscious  and  unhappy  to  attend 
any  large  gathering  of  this  sort. 

Stephanie  was  to  stay  on  in  town  with  her  grand- 
mother for  a  few  weeks,  for  the  hunting,  and  golf, 
and  the  numerous  dances  at  the  Cabaret. 

"It's  so  dull  for  the  poor  child  stuck  away  there  in 
the  back-blocks,  and  we  love  having  her  with  us,"  said 
Mrs.  Ford  on  Thursday  morning,  when  she  called  to 
see  Ann  and  to  purchase  a  winter  hat.  "By  the  way, 
Rhoda's  in  town  today— she's  driving  me  and  the 
twins  out  to  a  meet  of  the  hounds.  Stephanie's  riding. 
Why  not  come  with  us  in  the  car?"  Ann  looked  a 
little  doubtful.  "You  can't  plead  business,  you  know," 
went  on  Mrs.  Ford.  "It's  early  closing  day." 

"I've  always  work  to  do." 

"Nonsense— you've  had  your  nose  to  the  grindstone 
far  too  much  lately.  A  run  into  the  country  and  a 
little  fresh  air  may  bring  some  color  into  those  pale 
cheeks.  We're  taking  tea  in  the  car,  and  shall  just 
follow  round  as  well  as  we  can,  and  may  not  see  a 
soul  to  speak  to— not  even  Stephanie." 

Ann  put  forward  some  more  excuses,  but  Mrs.  Ford 
would  not  listen  to  any  of  them. 

"That's  settled  then.  We  shall  call  for  you  about 
one-thirty,  and  you  are  coming  back  to  dinner  with 
us." 

After  her  visitor's  departure,  Ann  began  to  feel 
glad  that  her  objections  had  been  overruled.  She 
was  tired  to  death  of  hats  and  frocks,  and  needles  and 
pins,  and  to  see  a  hunt  would  be  a  novel  and  exciting 
experience. 

She  wrapped  up  warmly,  for  it  was  a  cold  gray  day, 


Stephanie  231 

with  a  southerly  wind  bringing  an  occasional  splash 
of  rain  across  the  bay. 

"I  don't  think  the  showers  will  be  much,"  said 
Rhoda  Hemingway.  "We  can  put  the  hood  up  if  it 
gets  any  worse,  but  we'll  see  better  with  it  down." 

The  meet  was  on  the  property  of  a  sheep-farmer 
whose  place  was  about  eight  miles  away  amongst  the 
foothills;  and  as  the  big  car  left  the  town  behind, 
and  sped  along  the  road  inland,  Ann,  cozily  tucked  up 
in  rugs  behind  the  windscreens,  with  her  fur  collar 
pulled  up  to  her  ears,  felt  a  sense  of  exhilaration  and 
delight.  How  foolish  she  would  have  been  to  have 
refused  this  invitation!  She  wouldn't  allow  any  shad- 
ows to  darken  her  mind  today— the  fresh  south  wind 
should  blow  them  all  away!  The  two  little  boys  chat- 
tered beside  her.  Mrs.  Ford  turned  very  often  to 
speak  to  the  three  in  the  back  seat;  and  Rhoda,  with- 
out taking  her  eye  off  the  road,  occasionally  joined  in 
the  conversation. 

In  spite  of  her  ended  love-dream,  and  the  dread  of 
the  trial  ahead,  for  today  at  least,  Ann  knew  she  was 
happy.  She  was  thankful  for  these  good  friends,  and 
their  unremitting  kindness;  and  she  knew  that  time 
would  dull  all  heartache,  and  that  whatever  the  future 
held,  she  would  not  be  defeated  by  it.  Suppose  Vera 
did  succeed  in  obtaining  a  divorce  on  such  flimsy 
evidence,  would  Holmes  then  think  himself  bound  to 
offer  himself  as  a  possible  husband  to  the  co-respond- 
ent? Ann  smiled  at  such  a  fantastic  thought,  as  she 
saw  herself  installed  as  stepmother  to  Biddy  and  Jo. 
She'd  try  to  be  a  kind  stepmother  at  any  rate!  How 
ridiculous  to  think  of  herself  in  this  position! 

"We  shan't  see  the  actual  meet,"  said  Rhoda. 
"We're  too  late— but  we're  bound  to  pick  them  up 


232  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

somewhere.  They  don't  get  any  very  long  runs  here. 
The  hounds  more  often  than  not  put  up  a  second  and 
a  third  hare,  or  lose  the  scent  in  the  fern  and 
manuka." 

"Hares!  I  thought  they  hunted  foxes!" 

The  twins  laughed  at  her,  and  hastily  corrected  her. 

"Foxes  don't  grow  in  New  Zealand." 

"There  never  have  been  none  at  all,  have  there, 
Mum?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  said  Rhoda;  and  she  went 
on: 

"The  riders  spend  a  good  deal  of  time  popping 
over  the  wire  fences,  and  pottering  about  the  hillsides 
and  valleys,  but  they  seem  to  enjoy  themselves." 

"Do  you  mean  that  they  jump  the  wire  fences?" 

"Of  course.  Every  one  hunts  over  wire  here.  Gates 
aren't  easy  to  come  upon,  and  no  one  minds  wire." 

Ann  again  in  a  flash  of  memory  saw  Rodney  Marsh 
on  Nigger  sailing  over  the  wire  fence,  to  rescue  her 
from  the  infuriated  stallion.  But  she  wouldn't  allow 
herself  to  think  of  Rodney.  Nothing  should  dim  her 
enjoyment  of  this  happy  afternoon. 

Rhoda,  spying  the  hunt  on  the  hillside  to  the  right 
of  the  main  road,  turned  along  a  side  lane,  then 
through  a  gate,  and  over  a  track  running  across  a  wide 
flat  paddock.  As  they  drew  nearer  it  was  apparent  that 
the  hounds  had  checked,  for  the  riders  were  grouped 
together  talking,  and  there  were  one  or  two  other 
cars  containing  onlookers  near  at  hand.  And  in  one 
of  the  cars  Ann  saw,  to  her  surprise,  Dick  Holmes 
with  Biddy  and  Jo.  The  two  little  girls  rushed  across 
to  greet  her,  and  Holmes  followed  them. 

"Lovely,  lovely,  you  coming  too,"  shrieked  Biddy, 
embracing  her  warmly. 


Stephanie  233 

"Daddy  motored  down  from  Tirau  this  morning 
with  Gerald,  and  Gerald  lent  him  his  car  to  bring  us 
out,"  explained  Jo.  "Daddy's  sold  ours." 

"And  we're  going  back  in  the  morning  in  the  car 
to  Tirau  for  our  holidays,"  said  Biddy. 

"Gerald  isn't  coming.  He's  going  to  Wellington  to- 
morrow." 

"They  seem  to  have  told  you  all  the  news,"  said 
Holmes  to  Ann.  He  had  been  exchanging  greetings 
with  Mrs.  Ford  and  Rhoda  while  the  little  girls  were 
shouting  at  Ann. 

Suddenly  the  hounds  gave  tongue,  and  streamed 
away  along  the  valley  with  the  field  behind  them,  and 
the  conversation  took  a  different  turn. 

"Look,  there's  Stephanie!"  said  Rhoda.  "Boxer's 
jumping  well,  isn't  he,  mother?  Have  you  been  here 
long,  Mr.  Holmes?" 

"Yes,  we  came  out  early,  and  brought  some  sand- 
wiches with  us." 

"And  hard-boiled  eggs,"  said  Biddy. 

"And  Mrs.  Marley  made  us  tea  in  her  thermom- 
eter," added  Jo.  Every  one  laughed  except  Biddy,  who 
remarked: 

"Silly!  You  mean  thermogene." 

At  which  the  twins  chorused  loudly: 

"Thermos,  that's  what  it  is,  isn't  it,  Mum?" 

Hounds  and  riders  had  now  disappeared  over  a 
low  ridge  of  the  hills. 

"Could  we  go  any  further  after  them?"  asked 
Rhoda. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  replied  Holmes.  "They'll  prob- 
ably turn  at  the  creek  over  the  hill  there,  and  circle 
back  this  way." 

"Have  there  been  any  spills?" 


234  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"One  or  two  of  the  younger  contingent  have  been 
falling  about  a  bit." 

"Not  Stephanie!"  said  Mrs.  Ford,  anxiously. 

"No,"  answered  Holmes. 

"My  dear  mother,  you  needn't  worry  over  Stephen. 
She's  as  safe  as  a  house  always." 

"She's  a  very  straight  goer,  and  Boxer's  a  fine 
jumper.  Marsh's  horse  came  down  with  him  once. 
It  looked  an  ugly  fall,  but  there's  no  damage  done." 

"Rodney's  hunting,"  said  Biddy  to  Ann.  "We've 
been  talking  to  him." 

"He's  not  riding  old  Nigger.  It's  a  young  horse  he's 
just  bought." 

"You  are  a  silly,  Jo.  As  though  he'd  ride  Nigger 
now.  Why  he  might  crack  him  up  before  the  races." 

"Rodney's  been  riding  with  Stephanie  most  the 
time.  He  seems  to  like  her." 

"Of  course  he  does.  She  caught  his  horse  for  him 
and  waited  for  him  when  he  came  down." 

"You  children  are  talking  too  much,"  said  Holmes. 
"And  who  gave  you  permission  to  call  Miss  Heming- 
way by  her  Christian  name?" 

"She  did,"  replied  Biddy.  "She  said  if  we  called 
Rodney  just  'Rodney'  like  that,  we'd  better  call  her 
'Stephanie,'  so  we  did." 

"There's  mushrooms  over  the  hill  there,"  said  Jo 
to  Ann.  "Come  on  and  gather  some!" 

"Let's  go  for  mushrooms,  Mum,"  said  Peter. 

"Oh,  yes,  let's,"  said  Paul,  clapping  his  hands. 

"No,  I  can't  be  bothered  getting  out  of  the  car." 

"I'll  go,"  said  Ann.  "I'd  like  to." 

She  took  a  basket,  and  set  out  over  the  springy  turf 
with  all  the  children  round  her,  leaving  Holmes  talk- 
ing to  Mrs.  Ford  and  Rhoda.  Under  the  gray  sky  the 


Stephanie  235 

wind  swept  across  the  paddock,  through  manuka  and 
rushes  to  the  hills.  The  clouds  were  low  over  the 
higher  bushed  slopes.  Ann's  feeling  of  exhilaration 
and  delight  was  gone,  like  the  sweep  of  horses  and 
hounds  across  the  crest  of  the  hill.  Two  lines  of 

"Daisy"  came  back  into  her  mind: 

i 

"The  sea's  eye  had  a  mist  on  it, 
And  the  leaves  fell  from  the  day." 

Why  did  those  sad  little  lines  recur  to  her?  It  was 
the  loneliness  of  the  wintry  landscape  she  told  herself; 
and  she  set  to  work  with  the  children  to  gather  the 
thickly-growing  mushrooms  in  the  hollow.  But  after 
a  short  time  there  was  a  shriek  from  Biddy. 

"Look!  Look!  There's  a  hare!" 

The  little  brown  body  was  streaking  away  down 
below  them,  and  in  a  few  moments,  hounds  in  full 
cry,  with  all  the  hunt  following  in  pursuit  were 
visible.  Only  one  or  two  of  the  older  women  were 
riding  on  side-saddles— the  rest  were  astride.  Over  the 
wire  fences  they  went!  How  easy  it  looked!  The  hare 
doubled  round  again,  and  the  hunt  came  nearer— now 
one  could  distinguish  the  riders. 

"Rodney's  horse  has  balked,"  yelled  Jo. 

Stephanie,  riding  close  behind  him,  shouted: 

"Come  on,  I'll  give  you  a  lead!"  as  she  passed. 

Ann  saw  her  pretty  laughing  face  turned  to  Marsh. 
Boxer  jumped,  and  Rodney's  horse  did  not  refuse  a 
second  time. 

They  were  farther  away  now,  over  the  brow  of  the 
hill,  near  to  the  cars.  The  children's  interest  in  the 
mushrooms  suddenly  ceased.  They  raced  up  the  slope, 
leaving  Ann  to  carry  the  heavy  basket.  When  they 


236  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

got  back  to  the  cars  the  hounds  had  killed,  and  the 
riders  had  pulled  up  their  winded  horses.  Stephanie 
galloped  up  to  the  Buick,  and  greeted  her  mother  and 
Mrs.  Ford.  Holmes  had  collected  Biddy  and  Jo,  and 
was  moving  away  towards  his  own— or  rather,  War- 
ing's—car. 

"Granny,  I've  asked  Mr.  Marsh  to  dinner  tonight," 
said  Stephanie.  "You  don't  mind,  do  you?" 

Mrs.  Ford  looked  a  little  doubtful. 

"My  dear " 

"Granddad  knows  him.  He  likes  him." 

"Yes,  but " 

Stephanie's  pretty  face  clouded  over. 

"You  told  me  I  could  bring  any  one  I  liked  home 
with  me." 

"What  do  you  say,  Rhoda?" 

"It's  all  right,  I  suppose.  Apparently  he  went  every- 
where in  Hawkeston." 

"Granny,  don't  be  a  snob— I've  met  him  at  the 
Garlands." 

Mrs.  Ford  and  Rhoda  conferred  in  low  tones.  Ann 
moved  away  from  the  side  of  the  car.  She  did  not 
want  to  hear  this  discussion.  But  apparently  it  ended 
to  Stephanie's  complete  satisfaction,  for  she  called 
out,  "Right-o!"  cheerfully,  and  galloped  off  to  rejoin 
the  other  riders. 

Holmes  had  come  forward  towards  Ann. 

"We're  going  to  push  off  shortly,"  he  said.  "I  prom- 
ised Mrs.  Marley  I'd  get  the  children  home  early. 
I'm  taking  them  back  to  Tirau  tomorrow.  Waring's 
married  couple  are  with  me  for  three  weeks,  while 
he's  in  Wellington,  and  he's  lent  me  his  car." 

"That's  nice  of  him,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  he's  been  a  brick  all  through." 


Stephanie  237 

"Have  you  any  news?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  haven't  had  a  word."  His  eyes  were  on  her  face. 
"You're  worrying?" 

"Oh,  not  much!"  She  tried  to  speak  lightly.  "All 
the  same,  I  wish  something  would  happen.  It's  the 
suspense  that's  so ...  so  frightfully  trying." 

"Yes."  He  paused  for  a  minute,  and  then  he  said 
suddenly:  "The  whole  thing's  too  damnable  for 
words.  I'm  beginning  to  feel  that  I  shall  never  forgive 
Vera  for  all  this." 

"Don't  feel  like  that,"  she  said  earnestly.  "I  was 
bitter  and  angry  with  her  at  first— I'm  not  now— I'm 
sorry  for  her." 

He  looked  at  her  in  some  surprise. 

"Sorry  for  her!"  he  echoed.  "I  can't  quite  see  why." 

"She's  unhappy— I  always  feel  sorry  for  people  who 
aren't  happy." 

"Need  she  have  been  unhappy?  She's  certainly  done 
her  damnedest  to  make  a  good  many  of  the  rest 
of  us  unhappy,  hasn't  she?" 

"Yes,"  she  agreed.  "I  suppose  she  has." 

She  knew  so  many  more  reasons  for  Vera's  unhappi- 
ness  than  he  did,  that  she  did  not  wish  to  prolong 
the  discussion. 

"It  isn't  like  you  to  be  bitter,"  she  said.  "Please 
don't  have  that  angry  resentment  against  her  in  your 
heart." 

"I'll  try  not  to,  for  your  sake,"  he  promised. 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  gripped  hers  firmly. 

"Good-by,  and  God  bless  you.  I  know  who's  going 
to  be  the  luckiest  man  in  the  world." 

"Who?"  she  asked. 

"The  man  who  marries  you." 


238  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

He  turned  away,  and  Ann  went  back  to  rejoin 
Mrs.  Ford  and  Rhoda. 


She  tried  to  excuse  herself  from  dining  with  them, 
but  they  refused  to  listen  to  her.  Well,  what  did  it 
matter?  she  asked  herself.  She  must  learn  to  meet 
Rodney  without  feeling  any  emotion  of  any  kind. 
Why  not  begin  tonight?  Perhaps  he  wouldn't  accept 
Stephanie's  invitation. 

But  he  did.  She  heard  him  talking  to  James  Ford 
in  the  billiard-room  across  the  hall,  as  she  came  down- 
stairs to  dinner.  And  later,  when  they  all  went  into 
the  dining-room,  she  managed  to  give  him  a  little  nod 
and  a  friendly  smile.  He  was  not  in  evening  dress, 
and  neither  was  Ford.  Very  few  men  in  Wairiri  ever 
bothered  to  do  more  than  change  into  a  lounge  suit 
for  dinner,  though  their  womenkind  almost  in- 
variably "dressed."  But  he  looked  smarter  and  better 
groomed  than  she  had  ever  seen  him  before.  Evidently 
the  trip  to  Hawkeston  had  not  been  without  results. 
And  he  was  handsomer  than  ever.  His  face  had  gained 
some  touch  of  sternness  she  had  never  noticed  before. 
If  he  were  shy— and  she  believed  that  he  was— he  was 
not  awkward.  Neither  Mrs.  Ford  nor  Rhoda  would 
be  able  to  find  fault  with  his  manner.  Ford  himself 
—like  most  men— was  not  so  critical;  while  Stephanie 
was  quite  obviously  not  in  the  least  likely  to  find  any 
fault  with  her  guest.  After  dinner  she  turned  on  the 
gramophone,  and  she  and  Rodney  adjourned  to  the 
dimly  lighted  veranda,  while  Ford  sat  smoking  in 
the  billiard-room  for  a  few  minutes  before  beginning 
a  rubber  of  bridge,  and  Ann  struggled  to  keep  her 


Stephanie  239 

attention  fixed  upon  the  conversation  between  Mrs. 
Ford  and  Rhoda  in  the  drawing-room. 

Stephanie  was  evidently  giving  a  dancing  lesson. 

"Oh,  no  one  does  that  step  now,"  Ann  heard  her 
say;  and  there  was  discussion  and  laughter. 

Then  the  telephone  bell  summonded  Ford  to  the 
hall,  and  after  a  blurred  sound  of  conversation  be- 
tween him  and  some  one  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire, 
he  entered  the  drawing-room. 

"No  good  starting  bridge,"  he  said.  "Waring's 
coming  out.  He  wants  to  see  me  on  business.  He's 
leaving  for  Wellington  tomorrow.  Going  down  about 
this  Government  offer." 

It  was  the  first  time  for  a  considerable  period  that 
Ann  had  looked  forward  with  any  pleasure  to  the 
advent  of  Waring;  but  when,  after  about  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  he  arrived,  she  felt  that  he  was  a  very  present 
help  in  time  of  trouble,  and  she  gave  him  a  warmer 
smile  than  usual. 

Apparently  his  business  with  Ford  was  soon  dis- 
posed of,  for  he  left  his  host,  and  appeared  again  in 
the  drawing-room  within  a  very  short  space  of  time. 
The  gramophone  was  still  going,  and  Stephanie  and 
her  partner  still  dancing  on  the  veranda.  Waring  sug- 
gested to  Rhoda  that  he  and  she  should  join  them; 
but  Mrs.  Hemingway  shook  her  head. 

"There's  Miss  Merrill.  She's  younger  and  more 
energetic  than  I  am." 

"What  about  it,  Miss  Merrill?" 

Ann  rose  at  once.  "I'm  almost  hurling  myself  into 
his  arms,"  she  thought,  but  at  that  moment  she  did 
not  care.  They  danced  for  a  time,  and  then  sat  down 
in  two  chairs  outside  the  billiard-room  window. 
Stephanie  was  called  to  the  telephone,  and  Rodney 


240  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

Marsh  entered  the  hall  with  her,  so  that  Waring  and 
Ann  were  now  quite  alone. 

"I  heard  you  were  dining  here.  Dick  Holmes  told 
me.  That's  why  I  came  out— I'm  leaving  for  Welling- 
ton tomorrow." 

"Yes.  So  I  understand." 

"The  Government  has  made  me  an  offer  for 
Kopu.  They  may  take  over  the  whole  place,  but  I 
shan't  agree  to  sell  until  I'm  quite  convinced  that 
you're  determined  not  to  marry  me." 

"I've  already  told  you " 

"And  I've  told  you  that  I  haven't  altogether  given 
up  hope.  I  don't  intend  to  yet.  I've  usually  succeeded 
in  getting  my  own  way  so  far  in  life."  He  leant  across 
and  took  her  hand.  "Ann,  don't  be  foolish.  I  care 
for  you  more  than  I  ever  thought  I  could  care  for 
any  woman.  I'd  make  you  happy— I  swear  I  would. 
And  I  can  give  you  a  great  deal  more  than  most 
men." 

Ann  made  an  effort  to  rise,  but  with  one  arm  round 
her  he  held  her  firmly. 

"No,  you've  got  to  listen  to  me.  You  let  me  kiss  you 
once." 

"I  know,"  said  Ann,  distress  in  her  voice,  "but  that 
meant  nothing." 

"You're  not  speaking  the  truth.  It  mayn't  have 
meant  as  much  to  you  as  it  meant  to  me,  but  it  did 
mean  something.  You  weren't  entirely  indifferent." 

"For  that  one  moment— no." 

"There  were  other  moments.  The  first  night  you 
danced  with  me.  Isn't  that  so?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  it's  a  horrible  thing  to  say,  but  don't 
you  understand  my  feeling  for  you  was  no  more  than 
the  feeling  of  any  woman  for  any  man." 


Stephanie  241 

"You  put  it  in  the  past  tense." 

"Yes,  even  that— that  sense  of  physical  attraction 
is  gone  now."  She  disengaged  herself  from  the  arm 
that  held  her  and  rose.  "Please,  please  don't  let  us 
ever  speak  of  it  again.  During  the  last  few  weeks  I've 
learnt  to  like  you— better,  far  better— than  when  you 
attracted  me  more  in  another  way." 

"That's  rather  a  poor  consolation  for  me,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  not  meant  as  consolation.  I  only  want  you 
to  understand  that  I  don't  like  hurting  you  now.  I 
shouldn't  have  minded  before." 

"That  at  least  gives  me  some  ground  for  hope." 

"No,  no!"  she  said  with  pitiful  earnestness.  ''Ohj 
will  nothing  ever  make  you  realize  that  it's  quite  im- 
possible—what  you  ask?" 

"Nothing,  my  dear,  except  your  marriage  to  an- 
other man." 

She  had  no  reply  to  make  to  that,  but  she  moved 
forward  towards  the  lighted  hall,  and  he  walked  be- 
side her.  In  the  doorway  they  came  face  to  face  with 
Stephanie  and  Rodney  coming  out  to  resume  the  les- 
son. But  Ann  danced  no  more  that  evening.  She  sat 
on  in  the  drawing-room  with  Mrs.  Ford  and  Rhoda, 
until  Waring  had  taken  his  departure.  Then  she  rose 
to  go. 

"I'll  get  out  the  car  and  run  you  home,"  said  Mrs. 
Hemingway. 

"You'll  do  no  such  thing,"  returned  Ann  firmly. 
"It's  less  than  a  mile,  and  I'd  like  the  walk.  I  don't 
get  nearly  enough  exercise,  and  it's  quite  fine  now." 

"You  can't  go  alone,"  objected  Mrs.  Ford. 

"I  must  be  off  too,"  said  Marsh.  He  and  Stephanie 
had  come  in  from  the  veranda.  "I  can  see  Miss  Merrill 
safely  into  town.  I'm  walking." 


242  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

On  the  spur  of  the  moment  there  was  no  objection 
Ann  could  raise  to  this  arrangement;  and  ten  minutes 
later  she  and  Rodney  had  said  good  night  to  the 
Fords,  and  were  walking  down  the  drive  towards  the 
road. 

Ann  was  endeavoring  to  manufacture  small  talk. 
She  was  desperately  afraid  of  the  silences  between 
them— afraid  that  he  should  see  too  plainly  the  pain 
that  she  had  suffered  ever  since  the  remarks  of  Biddy 
and  Jo  had  revealed  his  intimacy  with  Stephanie 
Hemingway.  In  the  future  she  knew  that  she  would 
learn  to  view  with  indifference  his  friendships  for 
other  women.  She  despised  herself  for  this  stupid  con- 
sciousness of  jealousy.  "It's  wounded  vanity,"  she  told 
herself.  "I've  been  feeling  out  of  it— of  no  importance. 
Such  a  petty  attitude  of  mind!  I  won't  give  in  to  it! 
I  won't!  Why  shouldn't  he  admire  Stephanie?  She's 
very  pretty  and  very  sweet."  And  then  her  mind 
flew  on  to  his  engagement  to  Stephanie.  She  saw 
Stephanie  overruling  all  the  objections  of  her  family 
to  the  match.  Saw  her  in  her  white  wedding-gown 
with  orange-blossoms  and  veil  complete,  walking 
down  the  aisle  with  her  handsome  bridegroom.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Rodney  Marsh  were  settled  on  a  small 
sheep-station  before  Ann  and  her  companion  had 
reached  the  willow-bordered  road  leading  to  the  river 
bridge.  She  was  even  picturing  their  family— growing 
up— going  to  good  schools— coming  to  "Ann's"  to  buy 
the  girls'  outfits!  And  all  the  while  she  talked  on, 
apparently  quite  happily,  to  the  man  beside  her.  But 
Marsh  himself  was  not  so  talkative.  He  answered  her 
questions;  told  her  of  a  job  he  had  been  offered— 
buyer  for  one  of  the  big  stock  and  station  agents  in 
the  town. 


Stephanie  243 

Then  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rodney  Marsh  might  live  in 
Wairiri  itself,  not  in  the  country,  she  reflected 
quickly.  Mrs.  Ford  would  like  that— to  have  Stephanie 
always  near  her. 

"Are  you  going  to  accept?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know— I  haven't  decided  yet.  I'd  rather  be 
working  on  my  own." 

He  paused,  and  then  went  on  abruptly: 

"I  was  in  the  billiard-room  for  a  minute  this  eve- 
ning, when  you  and  Waring  were  sitting  on  the 
veranda.  I  heard  him  making  love  to  you." 

"Really." 

"Are  you  going  to  marry  him?" 

"Didn't  you  wait  to  hear  the  rest  of  the  conver- 
sation?" 

"I  didn't  wait  at  all,"  he  returned  fiercely.  "I  wasn't 
eavesdropping. ' ' 

"Weren't  you?  It  rather  sounded  as  though  you 
were." 

"You  haven't  answered  my  question." 

"I  haven't  the  smallest  intention  of  answering  it." 

"Are  you  nothing  better  than  a  ...  a  little  flirt?" 

"And  are  you  nothing  better  than  an  excessively 
ill-mannered  young  man?" 

"Yes.  You've  told  me  before  that  I'm  ignorant,  and 
arrogant,  and  conceited." 

"Very  well,  I'll  add  now  that  you're  impertinent 
as  well." 

"What  else  do  you  expect  from  a  drover?  A  man 
whose  position,  you  say,  isn't  equal  to  yours?" 

The  furious  turmoil  of  Ann's  angry  heart  was  sud- 
denly stilled.  She  was  conscious  of  a  sharp  stab  of  re- 
morse. 

"Rodney,"  she  said  quietly,  "I've  never  told  you 


244  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

that— I  haven't  any  'position'  that  I'm  aware  of, 
though  it  is  true  that  we  look  at  things  from  a  slightly 
different  angle.  But  I  realize  now  that  I've  seemed  to 
you  stupid,  and  . . .  snobbish,  and  priggish,  preaching 
at  you  as  I've  done.  But  it  wasn't  meant  like  that. 
Don't  you  remember  that  first  day,  when  you  let  me 
ride  on  Nigger,  I  told  you  that  I  knew  you  were  kind 
and  honest  and  brave?  Doesn't  that  include  every 
good  quality  in  human  nature?" 

"I  think  you  told  me  then,  too,  that  I  was  obstinate 
and  self-willed." 

"Well,  aren't  we  all  that?"  He  did  not  answer,  and 
she  went  on:  "Why  are  we  quarreling?  Life's  too 
short  for  petty  anger  and  bitterness,  and  in  our  hearts 
I  believe  we're  both  rather  fond  of  one  another." 

"Not  fond  enough,"  he  returned. 

"No,  perhaps  not  fond  enough  to ...  to  live  out 
our  lives  together,  but  surely  fond  enough  to  keep 
some  feeling  of  friendship  and  respect  for  one  an- 
other." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  said 
rather  gruffly: 

"I'm  sorry  I  was . . .  rude.  I  saw  you  with  Holmes 
today.  And  then  this  evening  knowing  that  you  were 
sitting  out  there  with  Waring " 

"But  what  difference  can  it  make  to  you,  if  I  do 
flirt  with  other  men?" 

"You  say  you  want  to  think  the  best  of  me.  Well, 
perhaps  I've  got  that  same  feeling  about  you." 

"Of  course  if  you  put  it  like  that,  it  doesn't  sound 
rude  at  all." 

"Let's  leave  it  at  that  then." 

This  apparently  constituted  an  armistice,  for  they 
now  walked  on,  discussing  less  controversial  subjects— 


Stephanie  245 

Nigger's  chances  for  the  Autumn  Meeting  in  a  fort- 
night's time,  and  for  the  Grand  National  in  August— 
the  young  horse  Marsh  had  ridden— the  Fords—and 
Stephanie!  She  was  a  very  fine  rider,  Ann  learnt,  and 
very  plucky— it  would  take  a  big  fence  to  stop  her. 
Pretty  too— and  kind.  Ann  agreed  with  all  Rodney's 
praise  of  the  younger  girl.  But  when  she  said  "good 
night"  to  him  at  her  own  door  she  did  not  linger. 
They  parted  in  a  perfectly  friendly  fashion,  and  Ann 
resolved  that  in  the  future  nothing  in  her  attitude 
towards  the  young  drover  should  give  him  cause  to 
believe  that  she  was  more  interested  in  him,  even  as 
a  friend,  than  in  any  other  man  of  her  acquaintance. 


XIV 

Vera 


i. 

WARING  had  been  away  for  nearly  a  fortnight  when 
Ann  received  a  letter  from  him. 

"It  depends  on  you  whether  I  return  to  Wairiri 
or  not,"  he  wrote.  "I'm  quite  aware  that  you've 
already  refused  me  on  three  different  occasions. 
I'm  trying  once  more— the  fourth  and  last  time. 
Don't  answer  for  a  day  or  two.  Please  think  it  over. 
As  my  wife  you  can  choose  whether  you  would  live 
in  New  Zealand  or  in  England.  You  can  travel  or 
do  anything  else  you  please.  Money  isn't  to  be 
despised.  It  oils  the  wheels  of  life  considerably, 
believe  me.  And  I'm  not  a  bad  sort  of  chap,  as  men 
go,  and  not  difficult  to  live  with.  I'm  neither  un- 
reasonable, nor  fussy,  nor  bad-tempered.  These  may 
be  minor  virtues,  but  I  imagine  that  they  are  not 
without  value  in  a  husband.  This  isn't  a  love  letter. 
It's  a  business  offer.  You're  a  business  woman. 
Think  it  over.  If  you  decide  that  you  want  to  live 
at  Kopu— which  you've  never  seen,  but  which,  if 
you  like  the  country,  you'd  find  one  of  the  most 
attractive  spots  on  the  coast— I  will  reserve  the 
homestead  and  part  of  the  place.  If  you  don't  want 
to  live  there  the  Government  can  take  over  the 
246 


Vera  247 

whole  station  as  they  appear  to  be  anxious  to  do, 
and  I  shall  not  return  to  the  district.  I'll  probably 
go  to  England  for  a  time.  I'm  holding  up  the  sale 
for  a  week,  but  do  me  at  least  this  favor:  read  this 
letter  through  after  an  interval  of  twenty-four 
hours  and  do  not  answer  it  until  then.  The  world 
is  a  very  beautiful  place,  my  dear  Ann,  and  we 
could  see  it  together. 

"I'm  not  discounting  your  own  capacity  as  a 
money-maker.  You  appear  to  be  doing  exceedingly 
well.  But  after  years  of  a.  rather  irksome  grind,  I 
don't  think  it  is  possible  that  you  would  have  made 
as  much  money  as  I  could  give  you  tomorrow. 
Money  means  freedom.  That's  its  greatest  virtue, 
and  freedom  to  enjoy  its  pleasures  while  you  are 
young  is  not  to  be  despised." 

Ann  read  the  letter  through  carefully,  and  though 
she  had  no  doubt  as  to  what  her  reply  would  be, 
she  placed  it  in  the  envelope  and  locked  it  up  in  her 
desk.  She  meant  to  accede  to  Waring's  request,  and 
read  it  again  later.  The  lapse  of  time  wasn't  in  the 
least  likely  to  alter  her  decision,  she  felt  sure;  and  yet 
she  knew  that  the  writer  of  the  letter  did,  by  this 
means,  keep  his  offer  before  her.  She  was  honest 
enough  not  to  deny  that  to  a  certain  extent  she  was 
tempted  now,  as  she  had  never  been  before,  to  accept 
Waring's  proposal.  It  meant  the  solution  of  so  many 
of  her  difficulties.  But,  though  she  admitted  the  truth 
of  his  statement,  "money  means  freedom,"  she  wasn't 
blind  to  the  fact  that  a  loveless  marriage  didn't  mean 
anything  of  the  sort.  She  had  already  tasted  the  joy 
of  an  income  earned  by  her  own  efforts.  Only  one 
thing  she  knew  would  ever  induce  her  to  give  up  her 


248  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

economic  independence— the  sharing  of  her  life  with 
a  man  she  loved. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  the  day,  though  at  the 
back  of  her  mind  she  had  still  the  memory  of  War- 
ing's  letter  locked  up  in  her  desk,  her  attention  was 
concentrated  upon  the  work  in  hand.  Both  she  and 
Mrs.  Hill  were  kept  busily  engaged  supplying  the 
wants  of  numerous  customers,  while  Ruth  Atkins, 
the  third  member  of  the  establishment,  sat  in  Ann's 
room  behind  the  shop  stitching  industriously. 

The  Autumn  Steeplechase  Meeting  was  to  take 
place  next  day,  and  new  frocks  and  hats  were  being 
busily  selected.  Rhoda  Hemingway  was  in  town, 
staying  with  her  mother  for  the  races,  and  Mrs.  Ford 
telephoned  to  Ann  inviting  her  to  accompany  them  in 
the  car. 

"We  have  a  spare  seat.  Rhoda's  driving,  and 
Stephanie,  of  course,  is  coming.  Jim  prefers  to  spend 
the  day  on  the  golf  course.  I'm  not  much  of  a  race- 
goer, but  Stephanie  won't  hear  of  my  spending  the 
day  at  home  alone.  We've  got  half  a  dozen  ladies' 
tickets,  so  you  might  as  well  make  use  of  one  of 
them." 

Ann  thanked  her,  but  declined.  Vera  had  sent  no 
answer  to  the  letter  she  had  written  to  her  nearly 
three  months  previously,  and  still  had  made  no 
further  move  to  go  on  with  the  case.  But  as  long  as 
the  action  was  pending,  Ann  had  no  desire  to  join  in 
any  social  functions.  And  yet  she  could  not  help  feel- 
ing a  little  pang  of  regret  as  she  refused  the  invitation. 
It  was  to  be  Nigger's  day  of  triumph.  She  would  have 
liked  above  all  things  to  be  on  the  course,  to  see  him 
win.  And  Nigger's  owner  would  be  there  also.  All  the 
more  reason  for  her  to  stay  at  home,  she  told  her- 


Vera  249 

self.  She  had  seen  nothing  of  Marsh  since  the  evening 
she  had  walked  home  with  him  from  the  Fords;  and 
had  heard  nothing,  except  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
up  the  coast  buying  cattle. 

The  rush  of  business  was  over  before  five.  At  half- 
past  the  shop  would  be  closing;  and  Mrs.  Hill  had 
already  gone,  and  Ruth  was  putting  on  her  hat  pre- 
paratory to  taking  her  departure,  when  a  belated 
customer  entered.  Ann,  alone  in  the  showroom, 
moved  forward  to  meet  the  newcomer.  After  three 
days  of  stormy  weather  it  had  been  a  gray,  showery 
afternoon,  and  now  twilight  was  falling.  Ann's  hand 
went  out  towards  the  electric  switch. 

"Don't  turn  on  the  lights,"  said  the  other  woman, 
in  a  swift,  low  voice.  "Are  you  alone?" 

It  was  Vera! 

Ann  stood  perfectly  still  and  rigid  for  a  few  sec- 
onds. 

"I'll  get  rid  of  my  assistant,"  she  said. 

She  passed  through  the  door  into  her  own  room, 
and  after  a  moment  or  two  emerged  with  Ruth. 

"Shan't  I  stay  to  lock  up?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Oh,  no!  I  can  manage,"  returned  Ann,  her  voice 
perfectly  normal  and  business-like.  "I  want  that  rib- 
bon from  Bletchley's,  particularly.  You'll  have  to 
hurry  to  get  there  before  they  close.  Don't  come  back 
with  it.  It'll  do  in  the  morning.  Good  night." 

Ruth  passed  out  of  the  shop,  and  Ann  shut  the 
outer  door,  and  returning  closed  the  inner  door  as 
well. 

Vera  was  standing  where  she  had  left  her,  with  her 
back  to  the  entrance.  She  was  picking  up  hats  and 
putting  them  down. 


250  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"We're  quite  alone  now,"  said  Ann,  "and  we  shan't 
be  disturbed  again." 

"Are  you  surprised  to  see  me?"  asked  Vera,  with 
a  certain  harsh  abruptness. 

"Just  at  first  I  was,  but  I  think  I  always  knew  we'd 
meet  again— somewhere." 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  think  our  lives  are  bound  together 
in  a  way— yours  and  mine." 

"The  bond  was  nearly  broken  then.  They  thought 
I  was  dying  in  Sydney— I  wish  I  had  died." 

Even  in  the  dim  light,  Ann  could  see  that  the  hand- 
some face  was  more  haggard  than  ever— the  dark  eyes 
more  deeply  sunken. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said. 

"Sorry  that  I  didn't  die?" 

"You  know  that's  not  what  I  mean." 

"Why  should  you  be  sorry  for  any  other  reason? 
I  don't  want  pity." 

"Don't  you  want  any  affection— any  sympathy?" 

Vera  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  and  then  she 
said  sharply: 

"That's  out  of  the  question  between  us  now." 

"Why?  You  don't  believe  that  story  about  Mr. 
Holmes  and  me— I  know  you  don't." 

"Why  shouldn't  I?" 

"You  know  that  there's  only  one  woman  in  his  life 
-you." 

Suddenly  Ann  pushed  forward  a  chair. 

"Sit  down.  You're  dead  tired." 

"There's  no  reason  why  I  should  be— I've  been 
sitting  in  the  Hawkeston  service  car  all  day." 

But  nevertheless  she  took  the  chair  that  was  offered. 


Vera  251 

"I  suppose  I'm  not  quite  strong  yet.  They  told  me 
I  ought  not  to  travel  so  soon." 

"What  was  it?" 

"Pneumonia— after  'flu." 

"Why  have  you  come  back?" 

"It's  better  that  I  should  be  here,  on  the  spot,  for 
the  case,  isn't  it?" 

"If  you're  going  on  with  it,  I  don't  think  you 
ought  to  have  come  to  see  me." 

"Why  not?  No  one  need  know  I've  seen  you.  I 
only  arrived  an  hour  ago.  No  one  even  suspects  I'm 
back  in  Wairiri  yet." 

Ann  made  no  comment  on  this.  But  she  had  seated 
herself,  and  the  two  women  faced  one  another  in 
silence,  in  the  darkening  shop. 

"Was  it  true— what  you  said  in  your  letter?"  asked 
Vera  suddenly. 

"You  know  it  was." 

"How  should  I  know?  Why  should  a  man  like 
Gerald  Waring  want  to  marry  you?  How  often  out- 
side the  pages  of  penny  novelettes  does  the  rich 
bachelor  propose  to  his  typist  or ...  or  any  poor  girl 
in  a  subordinate  position?" 

"That's  not  a  very  kind  remark,  is  it?"  said  Ann. 

"Why  should  I  be  kind  to  you?" 

"Haven't  I  shown  any  consideration  for  you?" 

"You  mean  in  keeping  from  Dick  the  knowledge 
you  imagine  you  gained  of  ...  of  an  intrigue  between 
Gerald  and  me?  I  wish  now  you'd  spoken.  I  wish  the 
action  for  divorce  had  been  brought  by  Dick." 

Ann  was  silent,  and  Vera  went  on  with  a  certain 
violence: 

"Gerald  always  flirts  with  every  attractive  woman 
he  comes  across— but  he  hasn't  any  serious  idea  of 


252  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

marriage.  You've  misconstrued  something  he  has 
said."  She  was  looking  at  Ann  with  burning  eyes. 
"What  was  it  that  made  you  imagine  that  he ...  he 
really  loved  you?" 

"Why  should  I  tell  you  anything  further?"  an- 
swered Ann  quietly.  "All  that  I  wrote  in  my  letter 
to  you  was  true— not  only  that  Gerald  Waring  wanted 
to  marry  me,  but  that  he  would  never  ask  you  to  be 
his  wife— now." 

"So  he's  been  discussing  me  with  you?" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Holmes,  how  can  you  ask  that  question! 
Surely  a  man  who  would  do  that  would  be  a  ...  a 
pretty  shabby  sort  of  person." 

"You've  magnified  him  into  a  hero,  have  you?" 

Ann  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  see  him  either  as  a  hero,  or  an  utter  black- 
guard. Need  we  go  on  discussing  him?" 

Suddenly  Vera  gripped  her  hand. 

"I've  got  to  be  certain,  certain  that  what  you  say  is 
true.  Oh,  my  God!  It's  killing  me,  this— this  doubt. 
I  can't  go  on  unless  I  know  the  truth." 

"Why  don't  you  ask  him  then,  if  you  can't  believe 
me?" 

Vera  made  no  reply,  and  Ann  knew  that  the  ques- 
tion had  been  cruel;  for  it  was  evident,  even  before 
she  spoke  again,  that  Mrs.  Holmes  had  no  knowledge 
of  Waring's  present  address. 

"Is  he  here,  in  Wairiri,  now?" 

Ann  rose  and  crossed  to  her  desk. 

"He's  in  Wellington,"  she  said,  "and  I  had  this 
letter  from  him  this  morning.  He  doesn't  call  it  a  love 
letter— and  I  don't  think  I'm  acting  unfairly  in  show- 
ing it  to  you.  He  owes  you  more  . . .  more  confidence 
than  he  owes  me.  And  I  shall  never  tell  him  that  you 


Vera  253 

have  seen  it,  for  that  would  make  it  plain  to  him  that 
I  know  of  his . . .  his  friendship  for  you.  You  are  the 
only  person  in  the  world  who  is  aware  of  the . . . 
knowledge  I  have— and  no  one  else  will  ever  learn  it 
from  me." 

She  handed  Vera  the  letter,  and  turned  away  while 
the  older  woman  moved  towards  the  window  to  read 
it.  The  screen  of  short,  black  curtains  hid  them  from 
the  eyes  of  passers-by  in  the  street,  but  above  the 
curtains  the  evening  light  filtered  grayly  into  the  dim 
little  showroom.  For  a  few  minutes  the  rustling  of 
the  paper  as  Vera  turned  the  sheet  was  the  only  sound 
within  the  room.  Then  she  laid  the  letter  down  on 
the  table  beside  her. 

"Did  he  know  that  you  were  likely  to  be  mixed  up 
in  a  divorce  case  when  he  wrote  that?"  she  asked,  in 
a  strange  hard  voice. 

"Yes." 

"And  he  didn't  mind?" 

"He  didn't  believe  there  was  cause  for  the  action— 
any  more  than  you  believe  it." 

"Have  you  answered  this  letter?" 

"Not  yet." 

"What  are  you  going  to  say?" 

Ann  had  already  seated  herself  at  her  desk.  After 
a  moment  she  rose,  and  crossing  to  Vera,  handed  her 
a  sheet  of  paper  on  which  a  few  lines  were  written. 

"Is  this  your  answer?" 

"Yes." 

"Am  I  to  read  it?" 

"Please.  And  perhaps  you'd  post  it  for  me." 

She  addressed  an  envelope  and  stamped  it,  while 
Vera's  eyes  passed  over  the  written  words. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath  as  she  finished  reading. 


254  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"And  so,  though  he  will  never  know  it,  my  hand 
will  deal  him  the  blow.  There's  a  certain  satisfaction 
in  that,  at  any  rate." 

Vera's  voice  was  still  unshaken,  but  it  was  hard  and 
strained.  She  took  the  envelope,  and  placing  the 
letter  within  it,  sealed  the  flap. 

"Are  you  refusing  him  because— because  of  what 
you  know  concerning  his  friendship,  as  you  call  it,  for 
me?" 

"No,  he  asked  me  to  marry  him  before— that  night. 
The  afternoon  you  all  got  back  from  the  Wairiri  Polo 
Tournament." 

"Had  he  been  making  love  to  you  from  the  first 
day  of  your  arrival?" 

"What  good  can  all  this  discussion  do?" 

"You  needn't  answer  my  question." 

"If  it  helps,  I'll  tell  you." 

"Yes,  it  will  help  me.  Not  now,  at  the  moment, 
perhaps,  but  later.  Do  you  mind  if  I  sit  down  again?" 

She  sank  into  a  chair,  and  for  a  moment  Ann,  look- 
ing at  her  face,  so  deathly  white  in  the  gloom,  thought 
she  was  going  to  faint. 

"No,  I'm  all  right,"  said  Vera,  as  Ann  made  a  move- 
ment towards  her.  "Don't  come  any  nearer.  I  think 
I'm  hating  you  and  Gerald  more  than  I've  ever 
hated  any  one  in  my  life." 

"You  haven't  any  reason  to  hate  me." 

"Reason— reason,"  repeated  Vera,  a  little  wildly. 
"Do  you  think  this  kind  of ...  of  torment  has  any- 
thing to  do  with  reason?"  She  took  a  deep  breath 
again,  and  closing  her  eyes  laid  her  head  back  against 
the  cushions  of  the  chair.  "I  wish  I  could  cry,"  she 
said  at  last.  "I  haven't  cried  since..."  she  broke 
off.  "Not  even  when  I  was  ill  in  Sydney.  They  thought 


Vera  255 

I  was  so  brave.  I  wasn't.  A  fire  seemed  to  be  burning 
my  heart  out." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  Ann 
said: 

"You  want  to  know  all  that  has  ever  passed  between 
us— Mr.  Waring  and  me.  It  isn't  much.  He  began  a 
sort  of  flirtation— you  could  hardly  even  call  it  that- 
soon  after  my  arrival.  I  never  imagined  he  was  in 
earnest.  I  don't  think  he  was  at  that  time.  Then  one 
night— the  night  of  the  dance  at  Omoana,  I  let  him 
kiss  me.  I  was  feeling  angry  and  reckless.  I'd  just 
realized  that  I ...  I  cared  for  some  one  else,  and  that 
he  was  quite  indifferent  to  me." 

"For  Dick?"  Vera  gave  a  half-hysterical  laugh. 
"That  would  be  the  most  ironic  touch  of  all." 

"So  you  admit  that  you've  never  believed  you  had 
any  grounds  for  your  action?"  said  Ann  swiftly. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Your  tone  then  told  me  so  quite  clearly." 

"Never  mind  the  divorce."  Vera  dismissed  that  as 
though  it  were  of  no  importance.  "I  don't  care  who 
you  fancy  you  love.  It  might  be  a  good  thing  if  it 
were  Dick.  Tell  me  about— Gerald." 

"There's  nothing  else  to  tell.  He  never  kissed  me 
again.  I've  seen  him  alone  on  three  occasions  since 
then— once  that  afternoon  when  he  came  into  the 
kitchen  at  Tirau,  once  when  he  came  back  from 
Australia  and  asked  me  to  morning  tea  with  him  at 
the  Imperial,  and  once  at  the  Fords'  house,  about  a 
fortnight  ago." 

"And  each  time  he  asked  you  to  be  his  wife?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Ann,  "and  I  refused." 

"You've  told  me  everything?" 

"Everything." 


256  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

Vera  gave  a  long  sigh. 

"The  mills  of  God  grind  slowly,"  she  said  at  last. 
"He'll  never  suffer  what  I've  suffered,  but  he's  paying 
—in  part.  I'm  glad  of  that." 

It  was  almost  dark  now  in  the  little  showroom. 
Near  the  window  one  or  two  hats,  perched  on  their 
stands,  caught  the  light  from  a  street  lamp  outside. 
They  looked  absurd— trivial  and  incongruous— like 
some  ridiculous  spectators  of  this  queer  scene.  It 
was  the  sort  of  background  a  fantastic  dream  might 
have.  From  without  came  the  rattle  of  a  passing 
dray,  the  horn  of  a  motor,  the  sound  of  a  horse's 
clattering  hoofs. 

The  silence  within  the  room  was  unbroken  for  so 
long  that  Ann  wondered  if  Vera  had  quietly  fallen 
asleep.  But  suddenly  she  spoke. 

"What  has  happened  to ...  to  Biddy  and  Jo?  Are 
they  still  at  Mrs.  Marley's?" 

"They're  spending  their  holidays  at  Tirau,  with 
Mr.  Holmes.  Of  course  to  them  nothing  is  altered— 
except  that  you  aren't  there." 

"Were  their— their  small  belongings  sold— their  sad- 
dles—Biddy's old  horse " 

"I  don't  think  the  bank  made  any  changes.  Mr. 
Holmes  got  rid  of  the  car  and  his  polo  ponies.  Just 
those  things,  I  believe,  that  weren't  included  in  the 
mortgage.  Mr.  Ford  believes  he  may  eventually  get 
Tirau  back— I  don't  know  much  about  the  business 
part  of  it." 

She  did  not  mention  the  fact  that  Gerald  Waring 
had  been  instrumental  in  putting  matters  on  a  better 
footing  for  Holmes.  She  would  avoid  all  further  ref- 
erence to  the  man  who  had  been  an  utterly  disloyal 
friend,  and  yet  kind  after  his  own  fashion. 


Vera  257 

"Are  the  children  well?" 

"Quite  well.  I  saw  them  less  than  a  fortnight  ago 
—and  Mr.  Holmes  too.  He  was  out  at  the  hunt." 

"He's  able  to  enjoy  himself,  then,"  remarked  Vera, 
dryly. 

"He  went  more  for  the  children's  sake  than  his  own, 
I  imagine.  I  don't  think  if  you  could  see  him  you'd 
talk  about  his  'enjoying  himself.'  But  every  one  says 
he's  been  very  brave." 

Vera  made  no  comment  on  this.  She  did  not  refer 
again  either  to  her  husband  or  the  children.  She  still 
held  the  letter  to  Waring  in  her  hand. 

"So  this  is  Gerald's  address  in  Wellington,"  she 
said. 

"Yes." 

Was  she  going  to  make  another  effort  to  see  the 
man  who  had  proved  faithless?  Ann  wondered.  But 
she  could  not  ask.  And  she  could  not  bring  herself  to 
mention  the  case  again.  Nothing  she  could  say  would 
be  likely  to  influence  Vera— now.  She  was  unable  to 
read  the  older  woman's  thoughts— they  were  as  in- 
scrutable as  ever.  Had  the  knowledge  she  had  gained 
—the  absolute  certainty  that  Waring  was  no  longer 
her  lover— ended  the  despairing  conflict  of  her  mind? 
Ann  couldn't  tell.  She  knew  herself  that  certainty 
might  in  some  cases  be  easier  to  bear  than  heart- 
breaking suspense. 

"I  landed  in  Wellington.  I  stayed  there  for  one 
night  before  coming  on  to  Hawkeston  yesterday.  And 
I  didn't  even  know  that  I  was  near  him— could  have 
seen  him  and  spoken  to  him." 

Vera  seemed  not  so  much  to  be  addressing  Ann,  as 
thinking  aloud.  Her  voice  was  low  and  hard.  Did  she 


258  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

regret  not  having  seen  him?  Again  Ann  couldn't  be 
sure.  Vera  rose. 

"I'm  staying  at  the  Imperial  tonight." 

"And  tomorrow?" 

It  was  the  nearest  Ann  could  get  to  any  question 
as  to  Vera's  plans. 

"Tomorrow!"  echoed  Vera,  still  with  the  same 
bitter  ring  in  her  voice.  "There  may  be  no  tomorrow. 
Oh,  I'm  not  contemplating  a  dose  of  poison  or  any- 
thing dramatic  of  that  sort.  I  haven't  got  the  pluck  to 
commit  suicide— I  wish  I  had." 

She  rose,  and  in  the  darkness  stumbled  over  a  low 
stool. 

"I'd  better  turn  on  the  light,"  said  Ann. 

She  waited  a  moment,  but  as  Vera  did  not  again 
request  her  not  to  do  so,  she  moved  to  the  switch, 
and  in  a  second  the  little  showroom  was  revealed  in  a 
flood  of  radiance.  Clearly  now  Ann  could  see  the 
ravages  that  physical  and  mental  suffering  had 
wrought  in  Vera's  face.  She  was  still  handsome,  but 
she  looked  a  wreck  of  her  former  self.  And  yet  it 
seemed  to  Ann  that  the  eyes  were  not  so  wild,  the 
whole  figure  less  tense  than  it  had  been  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  interview.  "Has  it  helped  her?"  Ann 
asked  herself.  "Has  she  at  last  accepted  defeat?"  But 
still  she  couldn't  tell. 

Vera  was  looking  round  now  at  the  hats. 

"Have  you  made  a  success  of  this?  Oh,  I  needn't 
ask.  I  can  see  you  have.  You  should  thank  God  you 
have  some  work  that  interests  you.  It  might  have 
saved  me— any  sort  of  creative  effort."  She  moved 
across  to  one  of  the  stands  and  picked  up  a  hat. 
"That's  pretty."  Suddenly  she  replaced  it  on  the 
stand,  and  laughed.  But  her  laughter,  to  Ann,  was 


Vera  259 

more  sad  than  tears.  "After  passion  dies  and  one's 
life  is  smashed,  clothes  can  still  hold  an  interest  for 
us.  Oh,  God,  what  petty  creatures  women  are!" 

"Life's  made  up  of  trivial  things.  If  we  lose  our 
grip  of  those,  we're  done  for." 

Vera  made  no  answer,  and  Ann,  obeying  a  sudden 
impulse,  went  on  abruptly: 

"That  hat  would  suit  you.  Take  it.  I'd  like  you 
to  have  it." 

She  thrust  the  hat  into  Vera's  hands.  Vera  remained 
for  a  moment  holding  it,  and  then  suddenly  burst 
into  tears. 

The  hat  rolled  on  the  floor  between  them,  and 
Vera,  covering  her  face,  sank  back  into  the  chair  from 
which  she  had  risen.  Her  whole  body  was  shaken  and 
racked  with  sobs.  In  a  second  Ann  was  beside  her, 
but  Vera  thrust  aside  her  clinging  hands  with  a  sort 
of  fierce  anger. 

"No,  no,  don't  touch  me,"  she  gasped  out  between 
her  sobs.  And  Ann,  repulsed,  stood  at  some  little  dis- 
tance helplessly  wondering  what  she  could  do. 

Nothing,  apparently! 

Nothing,  but  allow  Vera  to  weep  on,  alone,  and  un- 
consoled.  But  Ann  was  wise  enough  to  realize  that 
these  tears  were,  as  Ford  had  expressed  it,  an  outlet 
and  a  relief  for  mental  suffering.  After  a  little  while 
Vera  partially  regained  her  self-control. 

"Of  course  this  has  its  humorous  side,"  she  said 
with  a  laugh  that  was  again  to  Ann  heart-rending. 
"I  tell  you  that  I ...  hate  you,  and  you  offer  to  present 
me  with  a  hat." 

"I  don't  believe  you  hate  me.  I've  never  believed 
it." 

"But  you  hate  me?" 


26o  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"There  have  been  moments  when  I  did,  but  always 
I  knew  those  moments  wouldn't  last." 

"You're  one  of  the  forgiving  kind— I'm  not."  She 
rose  as  she  spoke.  The  storm  that  had  swept  her  was 
over.  "I'll  go  now— good  night." 

In  another  moment  she  had  passed  out  of  the  inner 
door,  through  the  narrow  hall,  and  was  gone. 

What  did  she  mean  to  do?  Still,  Ann  had  no  clew 
as  to  her  intentions. 


2. 

It  was  half  an  hour  before  Ann  could  get  the  trunk 
call  through  to  Omoana,  and  so  on  to  Tirau;  but  at 
last  she  heard  Dick  Holmes's  familiar  voice  at  the 
other  end  of  the  wire. 

"Holmes  speaking." 

"It's  Ann  Merrill  here." 

"Yes." 

"Mrs.  Holmes  arrived  by  the  service  car  from 
Hawkeston  today.  She  has  been  in  to  see  me." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  then  Holmes's  voice 
came  again. 

"Well?" 

Both  he  and  Ann  knew  that  there  was  more  than  a 
possibility  that  the  conversation  could  be  overheard. 
Tirau  was  on  a  party  line.  Any  one  else  on  the  line, 
at  that  moment  standing  at  their  telephones,  could 
hear  all  that  passed. 

"I  didn't  ask  her  what  her  plans  were.  But  she's 
been  very  ill  in  Sydney— I  expect  you  knew  that." 
(This  was  for  the  benefit  of  any  chance  listeners.) 
"She's  staying  at  the  Imperial  tonight.  Is  there  any 


Vera  261 

possibility  of  your  getting  down?  You've  still  got  the 
car,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Are  the  roads  bad  after  the  rain?" 

"Not  too  good,  but  I  think  I  can  manage  it.  Did 
she  ask  you  to  ring  me?" 

"No,  but  I  thought  I'd  let  you  know,  in  case  she 
couldn't  get  through  to  you." 

"Thanks— it's  very  good  of  you." 

Again  there  was  another  pause. 

"Ought  I  to  call  and  see  you  first?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  If  you  go  straight  to  the  Imperial, 
you'll  find  her  there." 

"Can  you  tell  me— anything?" 

"No,  I  don't  know  any  more  than  you  do." 

"Shall  I  let  her  know  you  rang  up?" 

"If  you  like.  She  won't  think  it  officious  of  me  I'm 
sure." 

"No,  of  course  not.  Very  good  of  you.  Saves  her 
the  trouble.  She's  probably  been  trying  to  get  me." 

"Yes.  You'll  come?" 

"I'll  start  right  away.  With  the  roads  as  they  are 
I'm  afraid  I  can't  get  down  till  after  ten." 

"I  don't  think  that  will  matter.  The  tide  for  the 
beaches  isn't  very  good.  I  looked  it  up  in  the  paper." 

"Thanks.  I  can  come  by  the  inland  track  if  the 
beach  road  isn't  possible." 

"It's  high  tide  at  eleven." 

"Oh,  that'll  be  all  right  then,  unless  I'm  held  up 
on  any  of  the  cuttings." 

"It's  quite  safe,  coming  down  alone  like  this  at 
night?" 

"Oh,  quite— there's  a  moon,  and  the  weather's 
clearing." 


262  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"Don't  run  any  risks." 

"Of  course  I  won't." 

"How  are  the  children?" 

"Very  fit." 

"And  you?" 

"Ai." 

"Let  me  know  how— how  Mrs.  Holmes  is,  after 
you've  seen  her." 

"Yes.  Shall  I  call  or  'phone?" 

"Better  telephone,  I  think." 

"Tonight?" 

"Well"— Ann  hesitated— "you  may  be  able  to  give 
me— more  news  in  the  morning.  And  you'll  have  a  lot 
to  talk  about  tonight ...  as  Mrs.  Holmes  has  been 
away  so  long." 

"Yes— that's  true." 

"Just  give  me  a  ring  after  you  arrive  in  Wairiri. 
I'd  like  to  know  you've  got  through  safely." 

"Right-o!  Thanks  very  much  for  "phoning." 

"That's  all  right.  Good-by." 

"Good-by  for  the  present.  I'll  call  you  up  later— 
if  I  get  in  before  eleven." 

"No,  at  any  time— I'm  working  late.  Doing 
wretched  accounts." 

"Very  well.  Good-by." 

Ann  hung  up  her  receiver.  She  had  done  all  she 
could.  The  future  was  in  the  lap  of  the  gods.  What 
would  Vera  decide  to  do?  Would  she  be  so  anxious 
to  regain  her  freedom  now  that  she  knew  without  any 
shadow  of  doubt  that  Waring  was  no  longer  in- 
terested in  her?  Ann  had  no  answer  to  these  ques- 
tions. Vera  was  an  incalculable  being— her  actions 
difficult  to  foretell  with  any  degree  of  accuracy. 

Ann  could  only  hope  that  the  arrival  of  Holmes— 


Vera  263 

his  plea  to  her  to  abandon  the  action,  and  return  to 
him  and  the  children— might  not  be  without  effect. 
That  Holmes  would  use  every  argument  to  bring  this 
state  of  things  about,  Ann  had  not  the  least  doubt. 
She  was  convinced  that  she  had  spoken  the  truth 
when  she  said  to  Vera:  "You  know  that  there's  only 
one  woman  in  his  life— you."  Ann  did  not  believe 
that  his  love  for  his  wife  was  imperishable.  She 
doubted  if  any  human  love  could  survive  persistent 
indifference  and  neglect.  But  Dick  Holmes  was  one  of 
the  steadfast  kind— the  best  kind— and  his  affection  for 
Vera  would  take  some  killing.  It  was  by  no  means 
dead  yet. 

In  her  heart  Ann  was  conscious  of  a  very  deep  pity 
for  Vera,  and  she  could  never  rid  herself  of  the  belief 
that  in  her  own  queer  way  the  older  woman  still  re- 
tained a  fondness  for  her— Ann  Merrill.  Vera  had 
been  jealous  of  her,  and  capable  of  sacrificing  her  to 
gain  her  own  ends,  but  then  Vera  had  been  more  than 
half  crazy  and  desperate  during  the  past  few  months. 
Somehow  Ann  felt  assured  that  sanity  had  now  re- 
turned to  the  poor  tormented  soul.  It  was  a  very  sad 
sanity.  Vera  faced  the  wreck  of  all  her  hopes  of  happi- 
ness. They  were  illusions,  those  hopes,  Ann  knew. 
She  would  never  have  found  happiness  with  Waring. 
And  perhaps  some  day,  if  she  could  be  induced  to 
return  to  Holmes,  and  to  her  children,  more  happi- 
ness might  come  to  her  than  she  was  likely  to  believe 
possible  at  the  present  moment.  Now,  Ann  knew, 
Holmes's  wife  was  in  purgatory,  and  no  one  in  the 
world  but  Ann  was  aware  of  her  anguish.  The  fact 
that  Vera  had  brought  this  suffering  upon  herself  did 
not  diminish  Ann's  pity.  It  was  so  easy  for  those  who 
had  never  been  tempted— for  those  of  easy,  equable 


264  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

temperament— to  throw  stones  at  the  more  passionate. 
Nature  wasn't  fair.  She  armed  some  individuals  so 
securely  against  the  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous 
fortune,  and  left  other  so  defenseless. 

Ann  went  to  her  desk  and  tried  to  fix  her  attention 
upon  invoices  and  accounts.  Her  business  was  grow- 
ing bigger  day  by  day.  Within  a  week  more  goods 
were  arriving  from  London.  She  must  vacate  her 
room  at  the  back  of  the  shop— find  some  other  home 
for  herself,  in  order  to  secure  sufficient  accommoda- 
tion for  her  staff  and  the  augmented  stock. 

If  only  Vera  would  abandon  the  case!  Ann  knew 
that  if  Holmes  could  tell  her  this  good  news  within 
the  next  few  hours  a  great  load  would  be  lifted  from 
her  mind.  She  would  no  longer  feel  an  outcast,  unable 
to  mix  with  her  fellow-citizens.  She  could  make  a 
pleasant  home  for  herself,  enjoy  all  the  little  gayeties 
of  the  town,  and  form  many  friendships  amongst  her 
warm-hearted  neighbors. 

Marriage— a  happy  union— children,  and  a  home- 
was  probably  the  most  enviable  state  the  world  at 
present  could  provide  for  any  woman.  But  freedom, 
interesting  work,  the  control  of  money  fairly  earned 
by  one's  own  efforts,  were  not  without  their  own  ad- 
vantages. Ann  knew  that  she  was  never  likely  to 
reach  the  fullest  development  of  her  individuality— 
the  greatest  height  of  happiness— alone.  Like  any 
other  warm-hearted  girl,  she  wanted  love,  a  home  to 
share  with  her  mate,  and  children.  But  she  was 
sensible  enough  to  realize  that  though  marriage 
seemed  unlikely  to  be  her  lot,  she  was  lucky  to  have 
achieved  this  business  success,  which  meant  that  the 
life  ahead  need  not  be  entirely  destitute  of  happiness 
and  interest. 


Vera  265 

If  only  Vera  would  disperse  this  shadow  from  above 
her  head!  Would  she? 

Ann  returned  to  her  lists  of  figures,  adding,  sub- 
tracting, tallying  invoices  and  stock  lists,  calculating 
the  percentage  of  duty,  until  just  before  eleven  the 
telephone  bell  rang. 

Ann  crossed  the  room  and  took  up  the  receiver. 

"Holmes  speaking." 

"You've  got  down  quite  safely,  then?" 

"Yes.  Rather  a  rough  trip,  but  it's  a  clear  night. 
You'll  have  a  good  day  for  the  steeplechase  meeting 
tomorrow." 

"I'm  not  going— unless— " 

"Yes,  I  understand.  I'm  ringing  from  the  Imperial 
—just  this  minute  arrived.  Vera's  upstairs.  I  haven't 
seen  her  yet.  I'm  just  on  my  way  up  now." 

"All  right.  Give  her— give  her  my  love." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Honest?" 

"Honest.  Don't  forget." 

"All  right.  Good  night." 

"Good  night." 

Ann  hung  up  the  receiver.  What  reception  would 
Holmes  get  from  his  wife?  How  would  he  succeed  in 
his  mission? 

Ann  realized  that  in  the  morning  she  would  learn 
her  fate— would  know  whether  the  case  was  to  be  pro- 
ceeded with  or  abandoned. 


XV 

Nigger's  Victory 


i. 

ANN  did  not  sleep  very  well  that  night,  and  she  was 
already  dressed  when  her  telephone  bell  rang  at  about 
seven  o'clock  next  morning.  Again  it  was: 

"Holmes  speaking." 

"Yes,"  said  Ann. 

"Just  rang  up  to  let  you  know  that  Vera  and  I  are 
making  an  early  start  for  Tirau." 

Ann's  heart  seemed  to  leap  up  into  her  throat.  In 
the  intensity  of  her  relief  she  could  scarcely  speak. 

"I  wonder  if  you'd  tell  Ford  I've  written  to  him? 
Go  round  and  see  him  this  morning  if  you've  got 
time,  will  you?" 

Ann  knew  what  this  meant.  Ford  would  tell  her 
what  she  was  to  do. 

"Of  course  I  will.  How's  Mrs.  Holmes?" 

"She's  had  a  pretty  rough  spin  I  should  say— she 
still  looks  very  ill— but  we'll  be  able  to  look  after  her 
when  we  get  her  back  to  Tirau.  I  gave  her  your 
message." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"She  asked  me  to  thank  you,  and  to  tell  you  she'd 
decided  that  she'd  like  the  hat.  Don't  quite  know 
what  she  meant,  but  she  seemed  to  think  you'd  under- 
stand." 

266 


Nigger's  Victory  267 

Yes— Ann  understood.  With  a  little  warm  glow  at 
her  heart  she  realized  that  this  was  Vera's  gesture  of 
reconciliation. 

"I'll  post  it  up  to  her  today." 

"Thanks  very  much.  I  say— some  day  soon  you'll 
have  to  come  up  and  spend  a  week  or  two  at  Tirau 
with  us." 

"Yes,  I'd  love  to— later.  Hope  you'll  have  a  good 
trip  up." 

"I'm  sure  we  shall.  It's  a  wonderful  day.  Good-by— 
and  good  luck." 

A  "wonderful  day"!  No  other  phrase  so  adequately 
expressed  Ann's  feelings  at  the  moment.  The  shadow 
was  gone!  She  felt  like  a  prisoner  suddenly  released. 
She  was  free  again.  Free  from  suspense,  and  that 
haunting  worry  of  the  future.  She  could  take  her 
place  again  amongst  her  fellow-citizens  without  the 
consciousness  of  furtive  glances,  and  unpleasant  whis- 
pers. Oh,  joy,  just  to  be  alive  today!  Even  the  sorrow 
of  disappointed  love  seemed  to  lose  its  sting  in  this 
overwhelming  relief  of  mind.  And  not  only  was  it  for 
her  own  sake  that  she  rejoiced.  She  knew  that  an  im- 
mense burden  of  anxiety  had  been  lifted  from  Dick 
Holmes's  shoulders,  and  that  Vera  too  was  setting 
her  face  in  the  only  direction  in  which  she  could  find 
any  chance  of  ultimate  happiness. 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Hill  and  Ruth  arrived,  Ann  left 
them  in  possession,  and  made  her  way  along  to  Ford's 
office.  He  had  already  received  the  letter  from 
Holmes. 

"So  the  whole  matter's  going  to  be  dropped,"  he 
said.  "I  felt  sure  from  the  first  that  it  would  be.  A  fit 
of  pique  on  Mrs.  Holmes's  part  in  the  beginning,  I 
imagine.  She  was  probably  jealous  of  her  husband's 


268  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

friendship  for  a  young  and  pretty  girl  like  you.  I'm 
inclined  to  sympathize  a  little  with  her.  You're  far  too 
good-looking  and  attractive  to  be  a  governess  in  a 
country  house,  you  know." 

Ann  looked  a  little  hurt. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  saying  you  gave  her  any  cause  for 
jealousy,"  went  on  Ford,  "but  it's  hard  for  a  woman 
to  be  continually  reminded  of  her  lost  youth,  and 
Vera  Holmes  is  a  bit  passe  herself." 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Ann  indignantly.  "She's  wonder- 
fully handsome." 

"Handsome  is  as  handsome  does,  and  she  hasn't 
'done'  very  handsomely." 

"We're  going  to  forget  about  that  now,"  answered 
Ann. 

"Yes— and  we've  got  to  see  that  every  one  else 
forgets  it  too.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  now  that  Dick  and 
his  wife  are  together  again  at  Tirau  there  won't  be 
many  people  who  will  believe  that  divorce  was  ever 
even  contemplated.  As  far  as  I  can  make  out  the 
gossip  was  started  by  young  Marshall— Philip  Mar- 
shall—in Miller's  office;  and  as  Marshall  has  the  repu- 
tation of  a— well— an  embroiderer— the  majority  of 
those  who  heard  the  story  will  decide  that  it  was 
merely  another  of  Marshall's  sensational  yarns.  I'll 
have  a  talk  to  Miller  myself.  He'll  settle  Marshall. 
Now  don't  you  worry  any  more  about  it.  How's  busi- 
ness?" 

"Booming." 

"That's  good.  You're  off  to  the  steeplechase  meet- 
ing today  I  suppose?" 

"No  ...  I  don't  think  so." 

"Why  not?  Your  shop  isn't  open,  is  it?" 

"No,  but . . .  well  you  see,  Mrs.  Ford  did  ask  me  to 


Nigger's  Victory  269 

go.  She  very  kindly  said  she  had  a  spare  ticket,  and  a 
vacant  seat  in  the  car,  but  I  said  I'd  rather  not " 

"Because  of  this  gossip?  My  dear,  put  all  that  non- 
sense out  of  your  pretty,  sensible  little  head  once  and 
for  all."  He  rose,  and  patted  her  kindly  on  the 
shoulder.  "I'll  ring  up  Mary  this  minute,  and  tell  her 
you're  going." 

"But . . ." 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  go?  It's  a  glorious  day.  The 
outing  will  do  you  good." 

"Mrs.  Ford  may  have  given  away  the  ticket." 

"I  can  soon  get  another  if  she  has." 

He  moved  back  to  the  telephone  on  his  table,  and 
after  getting  the  number  said: 

"That  you,  Mary?  Miss  Merrill  is  going  with  you 
after  all ...  Yes  . . .  Yes  . . .  You'll  call  for  her  at 
eleven-thirty?  Right.  Here— I  say,  Mary.  Vera  Holmes 
arrived  back  in  Wairiri  last  night.  She  and  Dick  left 
for  Tirau  early  this  morning.  She's  been  very  ill  in 
Sydney.  Pity  people  haven't  anything  better  to  do 
than  putting  ridiculous  rumors  afloat,  isn't  it?"  Evi- 
dently something  was  said  at  the  other  end,  for  he 
laughed.  "No,  that'd  be  making  too  much  impor- 
tance of  it.  Good-by." 

He  turned  to  Ann  as  he  put  down  the  receiver. 

"Mary  says  she's  now  got  to  do  her  best  to  see  that 
you  aren't  lionized.  Run  straight  away  back  to  your 
rooms  and  put  on  your  best  bib  and  tucker.  Off  you 
go!" 

Ann  tried  to  thank  him  for  his  kindness,  but  he 
would  not  listen  to  her. 

"Stuff  and  nonsense— I've  done  no  more  for  you 
than  I'd  do  for  any  young  woman  in  Wairiri." 

That  was  true.  Ann  knew  that  he  was  as  large- 


270  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

hearted  as  he  was  large-minded,  but  it  did  not 
diminish  her  gratitude.  She  said  "good-by"  to  him, 
and  hurried  home  to  dress. 


2. 

The  band  was  playing  on  the  lawn  in  front  of  the 
grand  stand  when  Rhoda  parked  the  Buick  under  the 
yellowing  willows  of  the  members'  enclosure.  Many 
other  cars  were  already  there,  and  more  arriving. 
Friends  were  exchanging  greetings,  the  women  eyeing 
one  another's  frocks— talking  over  the  chances  of  va- 
rious horses  for  the  different  events— making  up  to- 
talisator  tickets. 

Ann's  heart  felt  like  a  bird  singing  in  her  breast. 
She  had  not  realized  how  deeply  she  had  dreaded  the 
threatened  ignominy  of  the  case  until  all  danger  of  it 
had  passed.  She  was  not  consciously  thinking  of 
Rodney;  and  yet  she  knew  that  he  would  be  here 
today,  and  for  the  time  being  pushed  out  of  her  mind 
all  memory  of  any  emotional  scenes  between  them, 
and  told  herself  that  she  was  now  content  to  meet 
him  merely  as  a  valued  friend,  and  only  wished  to 
rejoice  with  him  in  his  good  fortune  when  Nigger 
won  the  steeplechase. 

Absurd  to  have  felt  that  sting  of  jealousy  with  re- 
gard to  Stephanie!  What  did  it  matter  to  her  whom 
Rodney  married?  She  would  be  glad  to  know  that 
he  was  happy!  She  would  never  learn  to  be  utterly 
indifferent  to  him;  but  surely  this  feeling  of  affec- 
tionate regard— this  desire  for  his  success  and  happi- 
ness—wasn't anything  to  be  ashamed  of,  even  if  it 
were  felt  for  another  woman's  husband?  Ann  told 
herself  that  all  was  well  now— she  had  schooled  her- 


Nigger's  Victory  271 

self  to  look  at  the  whole  affair  in  a  sensible,  friendly 
fashion! 

Very  few  of  the  "coast"  families  had  come  down 
for  the  autumn  meeting,  but  Nell  Brunton  was  stay- 
ing in  town,  and  Harry  Kent— the  young  man  who 
had  devoted  himself  to  Ann  at  the  Omoana  races- 
was  also  on  the  course.  As  soon  as  he  caught  sight  of 
Ann  he  moved  across  to  speak  to  her,  and  remained 
in  attendance  for  the  greater  part  of  the  day.  Robin 
Ashby,  whom  Ann  had  met  at  the  Ford's  house,  was 
also  among  the  race-goers.  He,  too,  was  friendly  and 
attentive.  Ann  had  no  desire  to  flirt  with  either  of 
them,  but  it  was  not  unpleasant  to  be  admired  and 
popular,  and  she  liked  them  both.  She  liked,  too,  the 
girls  and  the  young  married  women  who  received  her 
in  such  a  kindly  fashion,  and  made  her  feel  at  home 
amongst  them  all. 

The  scene  was  much  the  same  as  it  had  been  at  the 
summer  meeting.  The  sun  shone  as  brightly,  though 
not  so  warmly;  the  women's  dresses  were  as  attractive, 
though  not  so  gay  and  light  in  texture;  the  flower 
beds  at  the  foot  of  the  stand  were  as  full  of  blooms, 
though  now  dahlias  and  chrysanthemums  replaced  the 
roses  and  tall  blue  delphiniums;  the  horses  in  the 
saddling  paddock  were  as  sleek  and  shining,  and  the 
colors  of  the  jockey's  caps  and  jackets  as  vivid  and 
brilliant  as  before.  Little  was  changed.  Yet  there  was 
one  difference  of  which  Ann  was  acutely  aware. 
Rodney  Marsh  seemed  to  have  taken  his  place  quite 
naturally  amongst  those  whom  he  had  once  described 
as  "a  different  crowd."  He  was  accepted  as  one  of 
them  now.  He  had  met  various  Wairiri  residents  at 
the  Hawkeston  polo  tournament— others  in  the  hunt- 
ing field.  Apparently  most  of  the  girls  knew  him.  Ann 


272  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

heard  at  least  three  of  them  ask  him  to  join  the  big 
luncheon  picnic  at  the  cars.  But  he  had  promised  to 
lunch  with  his  trainer  and  "some  other  chaps"  in  the 
public  dining-room,  he  told  them.  Ann  was  glad  that 
he  did  not  seem  unduly  elated  by  this  sudden  rise  to 
social  eminence.  He  was  not  dropping  his  own  old 
friends  for  the  sake  of  new  ones.  But  it  was  very  evi- 
dent that  his  attractive  personality,  and  his  uncom- 
mon good  looks,  had  won  him  an  unsought  popu- 
larity. He  was  an  "owner"  too.  Nigger  was  believed 
to  have  a  very  good  chance  for  the  steeplechase. 

Though  Ann  had  stood  near  to  Rodney  in  the 
crowd  in  front  of  the  stand  more  than  once,  she  had 
never  actually  caught  his  eye.  She  could  not  be  sure 
that  he  had  even  seen  her.  And  so,  as  the  day  wore 
on,  although  she  was  enjoying  herself,  her  spirits 
flagged  a  little.  Marsh  had  spent  some  of  his  time  with 
Stephanie  and  her  friends.  He  had  even  taken  them 
down  to  the  saddling  paddock  to  see  Nigger  in  his 
loose-box.  Surely  he  might  have  invited  her— to  whom 
he  had  first  confided  the  secret  of  Nigger's  future 
career  as  a  "chaser"— to  join  the  party?  But  he  didn't. 
He  seemed  utterly  unaware  of  her  presence  on  the 
course. 

Ann  told  herself  that  the  day  was  not  quite  so 
enjoyable  to  her  as  the  former  race  meetings  had 
been,  because  she  wasn't  backing  winners.  She  had 
not  succeeded  in  collecting  one  winning  ticket  from 
the  totalisator.  But  the  few  pounds  she  was  losing  she 
would  retrieve  on  the  steeplechase  at  three  o'clock. 
She  had  no  doubt  at  all  in  her  mind  as  to  the  result 
of  the  race.  Rodney  had  said  Nigger  would  win,  and 
she  still  had  implicit  faith  in  his  judgment  in  such 
matters.  She  remembered  that  hot  summer  afternoon 


Nigger's  Victory  273 

when  she  had  sat  at  his  bedside  in  the  little  front 
room  of  the  cottage  at  Tirau.  Again  she  heard  herself 
saying,  "I  shall  put  ten  pounds  on  him."  They  had 
been  talking  of  the  Grand  National  then.  No  matter! 
She  would  back  him  for  the  same  sum  today! 

But  as  her  thoughts  traveled  back  to  that  bygone 
moment,  her  heart  knew  a  pang  of  anguish!  She  could 
see  again  the  handsome  head  on  the  pillows,  the 
vista  of  sunshine  lying  on  the  neglected  garden  out- 
side the  open  window— the  wide,  sun-dried  paddocks 
stretching  out  beyond.  Oh,  happy  days!  And  they 
were  gone!  The  half-glimpsed  dream,  and  glamour  of 
first  love  was  never  to  be  realized!  Fool!  to  allow  her- 
self this  backward  sentimental  glance.  It  had  all 
meant  less  than  nothing.  But  she  did  not  mention 
to  any  one  the  amount  she  intended  to  invest  on 
Marsh's  horse;  and  she  would  not  allow  any  one  else 
to  put  the  money  on  for  her.  She  took  her  place  in 
the  queue  waiting  at  the  narrow  entrance  to  the 
booking  office  of  the  totalisator,  and  secured  her 
tickets.  Then  she  rejoined  Kent  and  Nell  Brunton, 
and  made  her  way  back  to  the  stand  to  watch  the 
race. 

"Marsh  stands  to  win  or  lose  a  good  deal  over  this 
event,"  said  Kent,  as  they  walked  across  the  lawn. 
"He's  not  only  backing  his  horse  on  the  machine,  but 
with  the  bookies  as  well." 

"I  thought  bookmakers  weren't  allowed  in  New 
Zealand,"  said  Ann. 

Kent  laughed. 

"They're  as  illegal  as  whisky  dealers  in  U.S.A. 
during  Prohibition  but  they're  just  as  numerous,  and 
do  just  as  big  a  business." 

"Funny  to  find  Rodney  Marsh  going  to  people's 


274  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

houses  in  Wairiri,  isn't  it?"  said  Nell  to  Ann.  "You 
remember  him  at  Tirau,  don't  you?  He  never  went 
anywhere  then." 

"Does  he  go  out  much  here?"  asked  Ann,  casually. 

Nell  Brunton  laughed. 

"I  think  he  dodges  as  many  invitations  as  he  can, 
but  the  Garland  girls  are  crazy  about  him.  Still,  I 
don't  fancy  he  wastes  much  time  on  any  one,  except 
Stephanie  Hemingway.  I  wonder  if  Mrs.  Ford  likes 
it— that  friendship." 

"He's  a  good  chap,"  said  Kent. 

"Yes,  but  he  isn't  quite " 

"Quite  what?"  asked  Kent,  looking  down  at  Nell 
with  a  smile. 

"Well— educated,  or " 

"Just  as  well  educated  as  the  rest  of  us." 

"His  father  was  a  plowman." 

"One  or  two  of  our  Prime  Ministers  haven't  been 
any  better  born." 

"He  isn't  a  Prime  Minister." 

"He  may  be  some  day.  How  do  you  know?" 

They  continued  to  argue  quite  amiably,  but  Ann 
took  no  part  in  the  discussion.  What  did  it  matter  to 
her  what  his  father  had  been,  or  what  he  himself 
might  eventually  become?  It  was  more  Stephanie 
Hemingway's  business  apparently  than  hers. 

The  horses  were  cantering  down  to  the  starting- 
post.  Kent  lent  Ann  his  glasses  to  pick  them  out. 
Green  jacket  and  orange  cap— those  were  the  colors 
of  Nigger's  jockey— easy  to  distinguish  in  the  distance. 
Against  the  horse's  shining  black  coat  they  suddenly 
reminded  her  of  the  coloring  of  her  own  bright  show- 
room. She  wondered  if  Marsh  had  chosen  them  for 


Nigger's  Victory  275 

that  reason.  Absurd!  Yet  it  was  a  queer  coincidence. 
A  lucky  omen. 

At  the  post  Nigger  gave  no  trouble.  He  got  away 
cleanly  and  well  as  the  barrier  went  up.  Ann  knew 
a  thrill  of  pride  in  the  gallant  old  horse.  He  was  so 
steady  and  unperturbed— so  ready  to  respond  to  any 
call  made  upon  him.  He  was  galloping  strongly,  and 
jumping  in  good  style  as  they  passed  the  judges' 
box  for  the  first  time.  Three  horses  were  ahead  of 
him,  but  Ann  felt  no  anxiety  as  to  his  ultimate  chance 
of  victory.  He  was  so  sure  and  safe— he  gave  one  the 
impression  of  having  full  confidence  in  his  own  power 
to  win.  He  was  gradually  overhauling  the  three  in 
front  of  him  as  the  horses  passed  away  behind  a 
belt  of  trees,  further  from  the  stand.  Again  they 
came  in  sight,  and  Nigger  had  gained  to  second  place. 

A  horse  coming  through  from  the  ruck  behind,  had 
begun  to  challenge  his  position.  But  Nigger  still  held 
it,  though  the  distance  between  himself  and  the 
leader  had  lengthened.  As  the  race  progressed,  no 
further  change  was  apparent,  and  when  they  were 
swinging  round  for  the  last  two  fences  before  enter- 
ing the  straight,  and  the  run  for  home,  Ann  began 
to  fear  that  Nigger  could  never  make  up  the  leeway 
between  himself  and  the  first  horse  before  they  passed 
the  judges'  box.  The  rest  of  the  field  were  beaten— 
the  race  lay  between  the  first  three  horses,  and  now 
Opou  in  the  lead  seemed  a  certain  winner.  The 
crowd  in  the  stand  were  already  beginning  to  shout: 
"Opou!  Opou  wins!"  But  at  the  last  fence  but  one, 
Opou  blundered,  and  came  down.  He  and  his  jockey 
were  up  in  a  moment,  but  the  race  was  over  for  them. 
It  had  resolved  itself  now  into  a  struggle  between 
Nigger  and  the  third  horse,  Acepot.  They  jumped  the 


276  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

last  fence  almost  together,  and  neck  and  neck  came 
thundering  down  the  straight.  The  whips  were  out 
on  both  horses.  Ann's  heart  was  beating  wildly. 
Could  Nigger  win?  The  crowd  were  alternately  roar- 
ing "Nigger  wins!"— "Acepot"— "Nigger,"  as  they 
raced  on. 

But  suddenly  with  a  chill  pang  of  apprehension 
Ann  was  aware  that  Nigger's  effort  was  unavailing. 
He  had  a  great  heart— he'd  never  say  die— he'd  battle 
on  gamely  to  the  end— answer  gallantly  to  any  call 
made  upon  him,  but ...  he  was  rolling  in  his  stride— 
his  speed  was  checked!  He  stumbled  on,  then  stag- 
gered, and  then  fell.  The  jockey  was  thrown  clear— 
a  length  ahead;  Acepot  passed  the  judges'  box  alone, 
and  the  rest  of  the  field  came  after.  But  Nigger  lay 
as  he  had  fallen— quite  still. 

The  jockey  was  back,  standing  over  him— the  crowd 
surged  out  over  the  green  turf  of  the  course.  The 
police  were  trying  to  keep  them  back.  Rodney  Marsh 
was  there— some  of  the  racing  officials— and  then  in 
the  little  ring  the  police  had  cleared,  Ann  saw  the 
body  of  the  old  black  horse  dragged  out  beyond  the 
rails,  to  the  spot  where  so  short  a  time  before  he'd 
cleared  the  sod  wall  and  the  water  jump  with  such  a 
gallant  stride. 

Ann  couldn't  look  any  more.  Her  eyes  were 
blurred.  She  knew  before  she  heard  the  murmurs 
round  about  her  that  Nigger  had  run  his  last  race- 
that  he  was  dead.  Oh,  poor,  poor,  Rodney!  His  best 
friend— that's  what  he'd  called  Nigger.  And  to  lose 
him  like  this— to  know  that  the  horse  had  struggled 
up  to  the  end  to  do  all  that  was  required  of  him.  He 
had  been  set  too  great  a  task,  but  he'd  done  his  best— 


Nigger's  Victory  277 

all  he  could— and  he'd  given  up  his  life  in  the  at- 
tempt. 

Ann  wanted  to  go  home,  and  yet  more  than  any- 
thing else  she  wanted  to  see  Rodney.  She  knew  what 
he  was  suffering,  and  she  seemed  to  be  aware  of  all  the 
remorse  and  unavailing  regret  that  now  he  would 
carry  in  his  heart.  It  wasn't  regret  for  the  money  lost. 
He'd  killed  his  best  friend— that's  what  Rodney  would 
feel— instinctively  she  knew  it. 

But  though  it  was  pronounced  "horrid"  or  "rather 
pathetic,"  the  death  of  a  steeplechaser  was  not  a  very 
great  tragedy  to  the  rest  of  the  race-goers;  and  Ann 
did  not  let  any  of  her  friends  suspect  how  greatly  it 
had  affected  her.  She  was  thankful  that  some  one 
had  covered  the  body  of  the  dead  horse  with  a  tar- 
paulin. To  watch  the  two  last  races  with  Nigger's 
shining  body  stiff  and  still  beyond  the  railings  would 
have  been  more  than  she  could  bear.  And  though 
she  was  less  inclined  to  smile,  for  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon she  talked  quite  cheerfully  and  "made  up" 
tickets  with  Rhoda  and  Nell  Brunton,  or  Mrs.  Ford, 
and  did  not  endeavor  to  find  Rodney.  She  did  not 
even  see  him,  and  it  was  only  when  going  home  in 
the  car  that  she  had  any  news  of  him. 

"Wasn't  it  hard  luck  for  Rodney  Marsh?"  said 
Stephanie.  "They  say  he's  lost  an  awful  lot  of  money 
as  well  as  his  horse.  The  Garlands  wanted  him  to 
come  with  us  all  to  the  Cabaret  tonight,  but  he 
wouldn't.  I  wish  he'd  promised  to  come.  It  would 
have  cheered  him  up." 

"Was  he  ...  very  upset?"  asked  Ann. 

"Oh,  no,  not  exactly  upset;  he  was  laughing  over 
his  bad  luck  with  Robin  and  me,  but  all  the  same  I 
expect  he  feels  it." 


278  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

Ann  said  nothing.  She  thought  she  knew  how 
much  the  "laughing  over  his  bad  luck"  meant. 
Rodney  wasn't  likely  to  wear  his  heart  on  his  sleeve. 

She  refused  Mrs.  Ford's  invitation  to  dine  with 
them. 

"Thank  you  so  much,  but  there  are  business  letters 
I  must  write  for  the  English  mail,"  she  said.  "And 
I'm  up  to  my  eyes  in  accounts  too.  It  was  awfully 
good  of  you  to  take  me  out  today.  I  enjoyed  it  tre- 
mendously." That  was  true  of  the  first  part  of  the 
day,  at  any  rate. 

In  her  own  room  she  made  herself  a  cup  of  tea,  but 
she  couldn't  eat.  The  thought  of  Rodney,  and  the 
grief  which  she  knew  he  was  enduring,  possessed  her 
mind  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other  thought.  She 
tried  to  write  her  letters,  but  she  could  not  concen- 
trate upon  them.  She  must  see  Rodney!  She  must! 
She  wanted  to  tell  him  that  she  suffered  with  him  in 
his  sorrow— wanted  to  bring  him  what  little  comfort 
she  could. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  she  went  to  the  tele- 
phone, and  rang  up  the  Imperial.  No,  Mr.  Marsh  was 
not  staying  at  the  hotel.  No,  they  couldn't  say  where 
she  would  be  likely  to  find  him. 

She  tried  one  or  two  other  places  without  success. 

At  each  failure  she  grew  more  and  more  desperate. 
The  desire  to  get  into  touch  with  Rodney  grew 
stronger  and  more  insistent.  Now  the  importance  of 
finding  him,  of  speaking  to  him  alone,  became  an 
overwhelming  obsession. 

At  last  she  gained  news  of  him.  At  the  Puawa 
Hotel  they  told  her  that  he  had  been  in  earlier.  They 
didn't  know  if  he  were  still  on  the  premises.  They 
would  go  and  see.  While  she  waited,  Ann  knew  that 


Nigger's  Victory  279 

she  was  shaking  from  head  to  foot,  and  when  at  last 
Rodney's  voice  came  to  her  over  the  telephone,  she 
stammered  so  much  that  at  first  he  could  not  under- 
stand what  she  said. 

"I  want  to  see  you.  Will  you  come  round?" 

"To  your  rooms?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  long  pause— Ann  knew  a  sudden 
anguish.  Would  he  make  an  excuse?  Plead  some  en- 
gagement? 

"All  right.  I'll  come  along  now,"  he  said  at  last. 

Ten  minutes  later  she  heard  his  knock,  and  went  to 
open  the  door. 

"You  wanted  to  see  me?" 

"Yes,  come  in  for  a  little  while." 

He  followed  her  into  the  lighted  showroom,  and 
they  stood  there  facing  one  another. 

Ah!  Would  she  have  been  deceived  as  Stephanie 
had  been  by  his  laughter?  Deep  in  his  eyes  she  saw  the 
pain. 

"Rodney  . .  .  my  dear— I'm  so  sorry." 

He  turned  away  with  a  little  bitter  gesture. 

"I  loved  that  horse." 

"I  know  you  did. . . .  Oh,  poor  Rodney!" 

"And  I  killed  him.  The  vet  says  he  strained  his 
heart.  He  was  too  old.  And  he  was  so  game— he 
wouldn't  give  in— oh,  God!" 

He  suddenly  sank  down  on  the  cushioned  lounge, 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  Ann  came  and  sat 
beside  him. 

"Don't  grieve  so  much,  Rodney,"  she  said  gently. 
"It's  got  to  come  to  all  of  us— death.  And  he  died 
well— gallantly— poor  old  Nigger." 

"Yes,  but  I'd  looked  after  him  when  I  first  got  him 


28o  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

—he  was  such  a  poor  sick  brute  then— and  I  swore 
he'd  never  be  treated  cruelly  again.  And  now  I've 
been  more  cruel  than  any  one— forcing  the  game  old 
chap  to  attempt  something  he  couldn't  do.  He  tried 
his  best— he  wouldn't  give  in"— he  stopped,  and  then 
went  on— "I  stayed  behind,  and  we  buried  him— just 
there  where  he  was.  I  couldn't  bear  throwing  the 
earth  over  him.  It ...  it  hurt  me." 

Suddenly  Ann  leaned  forward  and  put  her  arm 
round  him. 

"I  wish  I  could  help  you,"  she  said. 

"You  have  helped  me,"  he  muttered  huskily. 
"Just  to  speak  about  it  has  been  a  comfort.  I 
couldn't  have  talked  about  him  to  any  one  but  you. 
You're . . .  kind.  And  you  liked  the  old  horse  too . . ." 

For  a  few  moments  both  were  still,  and  then  he 
put  aside  her  hands. 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  come  here  tonight." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  know ...  I ..."  He  hesitated,  and  then 
he  said:  "Why  are  you  so  good  to  me?" 

"I  love  you,"  she  answered  simply. 

He  gathered  her  into  his  arms,  and  held  her  close 
—his  head  on  her  breast. 

"Heaven ...  to  be  here ...  at  last,"  his  voice  was 
just  a  whisper. 

"Why  have  you  left  me ...  so  long?" 

"Oh!  I've  been  muddled— wrong-headed.  I  didn't 
want  to  marry.  And  now— I  can't." 

He  released  her,  and  sat  back. 

"Why  not?  Is  it  because  of  the  case?" 

"Oh,  damn  the  case!  That  makes  no  difference- 
it  never  has— except  that  I've  been  jealous." 

"You  hadn't  any  cause.  And  now  that  shadow's 


Nigger's  Victory  281 

gone.  Mrs.  Holmes  is  back  at  Tirau.  Did  you 
know?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No,  but  I'm  glad,  for  your  sake." 

"Do  you  love  me,  Rodney?" 

"You  know  it." 

"How  should  I  know  it  when  you've  treated  me  as 
you  have?" 

"I've  been  a  fool.  First  I  thought  I  couldn't  give 
up  my  freedom.  And  then,  when  I  knew  you  meant 
everything  to  me,  I  told  myself  it  wouldn't  work— 
our  marriage.  You're  too  good  for  me.  I've  always 
known  that  in  my  heart,  though  I  wouldn't  admit  it. 
I  fought  against  it.  I'm  just  a  rough  sort  of  chap,  and 
I've  never  been  very  steady.  And  I  thought  Holmes 
wanted  you " 

"He'd  never  have  wanted  me." 

"Wouldn't  he?  I  think  he  would.  And  Waring, 
didn't  he  ask  you  too?  Well,  what  sort  of  a  match 
would  I  have  been  compared  to  them?  You  said 
yourself " 

"Ah!  Don't  bring  that  up  against  me— all  that  I've 
said,"  she  answered  swiftly.  "You  wounded  my  pride 
when  you  told  me  that  you  didn't  want  to  marry 
me— and  I  said  things  that  perhaps  I  didn't  alto- 
gether mean— things  to  hurt  you." 

"It  was  true  what  you  said  about  the  difference 
between  us.  Your  friends  weren't  mine.  But  I  made 
up  my  mind  that  I  could  know  the  same  sort  of 
people  you  know." 

"Oh,  it's  so  small,  all  that!" 

"I  know  it  is.  And  it  was  small  of  me  wanting 
to  show  you." 

"Well,  you've  done  it— isn't  that  enough?" 


282  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"It's  not  enough  to  make  a  certainty  of  any  mar- 
riage between  us  being  a  success.  There  are  plenty 
of  differences  between  us  still." 

"Couldn't  we  bridge  those  differences?  Make  al- 
lowances for  one  another?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  we  could  or  not."  He  rose. 
"Anyhow,  what's  the  use  of  discussing  it?  We  aren't 
going  to  get  married." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Because  there  can't  be  any  question  of  it  any 
more." 

"Why?"  A  sudden  fear  shook  her.  "Have  you— 
bound  yourself  to  some  one  else?  Stephanie  Hem- 
ingway?" 

"A  childl  Why  should  I  want  her?  She's  been 
friendly— a  good  little  pal,  that's  all." 

"That  other  woman— at  Omoana?" 

"There  is  no  other  woman— now.  Oh,  I  remember 
telling  you  there  were  plenty  of  women  in  the  world. 
There  aren't— for  me.  There  never  have  been  since 
that  day— only  you " 

"And  yet  you  won't  marry  me?" 

"I  can't,"  he  repeated  stubbornly. 

"You  still  won't  sacrifice  your  freedom?" 

"Oh,  to  hell  with  my  freedom!"  he  returned 
fiercely.  "I'm  not  free  any  longer.  You've  bound  me 
fast  enough.  It  isn't  that." 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"I've  nothing  to  offer  you— no  home  to  give  you. 
You  told  me  once  I'd  gamble  my  money  away.  I've 
done  it.  I  thought  today  I'd  make  my  fortune- 
come  to  you  with  enough  to  buy  a  place  in  the 
country.  I've  lost  everything." 


Nigger's  Victory  283 

She  crossed  to  him,  and  put  her  hands  on  his 
breast. 

"Money— is  that  all?  What  does  it  matter?" 

"We  must  have  bread  to  eat.  Do  you  think  I'd 
ask  you  to  live  in  a  drover's  hut?" 

"I'd  be  happy  there  with  you." 

He  made  a  movement  as  though  to  take  her  in  his 
arms  again,  and  then  drew  back. 

"I  wish  that— was  true." 

"It  is  true." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"For  the  minute,  perhaps,  you  think  it  is.  You've 
said  yourself  that  marriage  between  us  two  wouldn't 
be  a  simple  job.  Do  you  think  poverty  would  make 
it  easier?" 

"There  needn't  be  poverty.  Listen,  Rodney— I 
have  my  business  here.  I'm  making  money— every 
week  I'm  doing  better.  I've  got  to  take  a  little  house 
somewhere  in  town.  You've  been  offered  this  job  of 
stock-buying— or  even  as  a  drover  you've  got  to  live 
somewhere." 

"Do  you  mean  that  I'm  to  live  on  your  money?" 
he  demanded. 

"We'd  live  together  on  our  own  money." 

"No." 

She  put  her  arms  round  him. 

"Rodney,  Rodney,"  she  said  a  little  wildly,  "are 
you  going  to  let  your  foolish  stubborn  pride  come 
between  us  a  second  time?  Oh,  my  dear,  I  know  that 
marriage  will  be  difficult  for  us— there  are  plenty  of 
rocks  ahead— but,  darling,  isn't  it  better  to  be  to- 
gether on  the  ship,  taking  our  chance  of  danger- 
sharing  it— than  drifting  all  alone?" 

He  tried  to  put  her  arms  aside. 


284  Wild,  Wild  Heart 

"Let  me  go." 

"Where?" 

"Oh,  to  get  drunk.  I  don't  care!  That's  what  I 
meant  to  do  when  you  rang  up." 

"Listen.  It  hurts  your  pride  to  be  dependent  on 
a  woman— even  one  you  love.  You  won't  be  depend- 
ent. You'll  have  your  own  work.  You'll  do  well— I 
know  you  will.  And  later  we'll  buy  a  place  some- 
where and  be  together  again  in  the  country.  Oh, 
how  I'd  love  that— you  and  I,  Rodney,  in  our  own 
little  homestead.  And  you'd  teach  me  how  to  be  a 
sheep-farmer,  though  I'm  such  a  duffer  at  all  those 
things  you  know  about.  Oh,  my  dear,  you  do  need 
me!  I  can  help  you,  I  know  I  can.  You  said  tonight 
I'd  comforted  you  a  little  about  poor  old  Nigger.  I 
loved  him  too.  He  was  so  brave  and  honest— and  so 
are  you.  And  if  you  leave  me  now  I  can't  bear  it.  I 
can't  go  through  it  again.  I've  been  so  lonely— 
so  wretched— wanting  you  . . .  always  wanting  you. 
Rodney " 

Suddenly  she  burst  into  tears. 

In  a  second  his  arms  had  closed  round  her.  He 
was  holding  her  close— close,  his  lips  on  hers. 

He  was  a  lost  man. 


•  •  1 1  I II     III  I  II       II 

A     000129365     3 


You 

rural    pt 
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young  love 
ant    romf 
finally    sv 
and  temp 
of  young 
•ling. 


ADIA  ;. 
tth  Aver 


